The  Soul  of  ThQ  Soldier 


By  CHAPLAIN  THOMAS  TIPLADY 
FIFTH  EDITION 

The  Cross  at  the  Front 

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" '  Vivid '  is  too  dim  a  word  to  express 
the  hving  pictures  which  this  chaplain  has 
seen  in  France.  Some  of  the  chapters  are 
among  the  finest  pieces  of  pathos  we  have 
read  anywhere.  Read  the  book  and  you 
will  be  a  better  man  for  all  your  tasks." 

— Chicago  Standard. 

The  Soul  of  the  Soldier 

Echoes  from  the  Western  Front. 

12mo.     Cloth.    Net  $1.25. 

An  astonishing  story  Chaplain  Tiplady 
here  has  to  tell — one  in  which  the  very 
foundations  of  existence  seem  temporarily 
uprooted,  and  the  world  turned  upside-down. 
Yet  never,  in  the  telling,  does  he  lose  the  un- 
swerving faith  and  cheering  optimism  which 
formed  the  prevailing  note  of  The  Cross 
AT  THE  Front,  nor  for  a  moment  relaxes  his 
belief  that  the  cause  of  justice,  truth  and 
righteousness  is  that  for  which  the  Allied 
armies  are  now  fighting. 


Captain  Guy  Drimiinonci,   1  3th  Royal  Canadian  Hifjhianders. 
Killed  in  action,  April,   1915. 


"A  SON  OF  THE  MOTHERLAND" 


0"*/ 


The  Soul  of  The  Soldier 

Sketches  from  the  Western 
Battle-Front 


BY 

THOMAS   TIPLADY 

Chaplain  to  the  Forces 
Author  of  "  The  Cross  at  the  Front,"  etc. 


New  York  Chicago  Toronto 

Fleming   H.    Revell   Company 

London  and  Edinburgh 


31B16 


Copyright,  1 91 8,  by 
FLEMING  H.  REVELL  COMPANY 


New  York  :  158  Fifth  Avenue 
Chicago  :  1 7  North  Wabash  Ave. 
Toronto:  25  Richmond  Street,  W. 


-r^ 


To  THE  Memory  of  the  Many  ** White  Men*' 

I  have  known  and  loved  in  the  London  Territorials,  who, 
being  dedicate  to  their  Country  and  the  cause  of  Liberty,  went 
over  the  parapet  and  did  not  return. 

"These  laid  the  world  away;  poured  out  the  red 
Sweet  wine  of  youth:  gave  up  the  years  to  be 
Of  work  and  joy,  and  that  unhoped  serene 
That  men  call  age;   and  those  who  would  have  been 
Their  sons  they  gave — their  immortality." 


THE  MOTHER'S  ANSWER 

God  gave  my  son  in  trust  to  me. 
Christ  died  for  him.     He  should  be 
A  man  for  Christ     He  is  his  ottd 
And  God's  and  man's,  not  mine  alone. 
He  was  not  mine  to  give.     He  gave 
Himself,  that  he  might  help  to  save 
All  that  a  Christian  should  revere, 
All  that  enlightened  men  hold  dear. 

"To  feed  the  guns."    Ah!  torpid  soul, 
Awake,   and  see  life  as  a  whole. 
When  freedom,  honor,  justice,  right. 
Were  threatened  by  the  despot's  might, 
He  bravely  went  for  God,  to  fight 
Against  base  savages,  whose  pride 
The  laws  of  God  and  man  defied; 
Who  slew  the  mother  and  the  child ; 
Who  maidens,  pure  and  sweet,  defiled ; 
He  did  not  go  to  feed  the  guns. 
He  went  to  save  from  ruthless  Huns 
His  home  and  country,   and  to  be 
A  guardian  of  democracy. 

"What  if  he  does  not  come?"  you  say; 
Well,  then,  my  sky  will  be  more  gray. 
But  through  the  clouds  the  sun  will  shine 
And  vital  memories  be  mine. 
God's  test  of  manhood  is,  I  know, 
Not,  will  he  come — but  did  he  go? 

J/^.MES  L.  HUGHBS. 


PREFACE 

THE  sketches  In  this  book  and  in  my 
previous  one,  "The  Cross  at  the 
Front,"  are  attempts  to  show  the  soul 
of  the  soldier  serving  In  France  as  I  have 
seen  it  during  the  year  and  a  half  that  I  have 
been  with  him.  It  is  a  padre's  privilege  and 
duty  to  be  the  voice  with  which,  In  public 
worship,  the  soldiers  speak  to  God;  and 
through  which  their  last  thoughts  are  borne  to 
their  friends  at  home.  He  is  their  voice  both 
when  they  are  sick  or  wounded,  and  when  they 
lie  silent  in  the  grave.  He  speaks  of  their 
hopes  and  fears,  hardships  and  heroisms, 
laughter  and  tears.  As  best  he  may  he  tries 
to  tell,  to  those  who  have  a  right  and  a  long- 
ing to  know,  how  they  thought,  and  how  they 
bore  themselves  In  the  great  day  of  trial  when 
all  risked  their  lives  and  many  laid  them  down. 
Soldiers,  as  a  rule,  are  either  inarticulate  or 
do  not  care  to  speak  of  themselves;  and  the 
padre  has  to  be  their  spokesman  If  ever  their 
deeper   thoughts   and  finer   actions   are  to  be 

7 


8  Preface 

known  to  their  friends.  To  do  this  he  may 
have  to  bring  himself  into  the  picture,  or  even 
illustrate  a  common  thing  in  their  lives  by  a 
personal  experience  of  his  own.  To  reveal  life 
and  thought  at  the  Front  in  the  third  person, 
and  without  sacrificing  truth  and  vividness,  re- 
quires a  degree  of  literary  power  and  art  which 
cannot  be  expected  of  a  padre  to  whom  writing 
is  but  a  by-product,  and  not  his  main  work. 

I  have  written  but  little  of  military  opera- 
tions— these  things  are  not  in  my  province. 
Moreover,  they  are  not  the  things  which  are 
most  revealing.  The  presence  of  Spring  is  first 
and  most  surely  revealed  by  the  flowers  in  our 
gardens  and  lanes;  and  the  soldier  is  most 
clearly  seen  in  the  little  things  that  happen  on 
the  march — in  his  billet  or  in  the  Dressing 
Station.  Some  things  are  not  seen  at  all.  They 
are  only  felt,  and  my  opinion  about  them  must 
be  taken  for  what  it  is  worth.  One  knows 
what  the  men  are  by  their  influence  on  one's 
own  mind  and  life.  I  do  not  judge  the 
morality  and  spirituality  of  our  soldiers  en- 
tirely by  their  habits  and  speech,  for  these  are^ 
but  outward  and  clumsy  expressions  of  the 
inner  life  and  are  largely  conventional.  There 
is  something  else  to  put  in  the  reckoning,  and 
to  find  out  what  the  soldiers  are  worth  to  us 
we  must  somehow  get  behind  their  words  and 


Preface  9 

actions  and  find  out  what  they  are  worth  to 
God,  whose  terrible  wheel  of  war  is  shaping 
their  characters. 

I  appraise  them  mostly  by  the  total  effect 
of  the  impact  of  their  souls  on  mine.  I  know 
their  thoughts  and  feelings  by  the  thoughts 
and  feelings  they  inspire  in  me.  "Do  men 
gather  grapes  of  thorns  or  figs  of  thistles?" 
There  are  certain  thoughts  and  emotions  that 
only  come  to  me  strongly  when  I  am  with  the 
soldiers  or  when  I  am  living  again  with  them 
in  memory,  and  so,  I  take  these  as  their  gift 
to  me  and  judge  the  men  by  their  influence 
on  my  character.  Character  is,  in  its  in- 
fluence, subtle  as  Spring.  Words  and  actions 
by  themselves  are  too  coarse  and  conventional 
to  do  anything  but  mislead  us  in  judging  the 
quality  of  our  men.  "By  their  fruits  ye  shall 
know  them."  Not  by  their  leaves.  Fruit  is 
seed.  In  the  seed  the  tree  reproduces  itself. 
And  reproduction,  whether  in  physical,  moral 
or  spiritual  life,  is  the  test  of  vitality. 

I  have  not  unduly  loaded  my  pages  with 
ghastly  details  of  war,  because  their  effect  on  the 
mind  of  the  reader  who  has  not  been  at  the 
Front  would  be  false  and  distorting.  The 
reader  would  be  more  horrified  in  imagining 
them  than  our  soldiers  are  in  seeing  them.  I 
have  tried  rather  to  show  life  at  the  Front, 


10  Preface 

with  Its  mingling  of  red  and  gold,  horror  and 
happiness,  as  it  affects  the  soldier;  so  that  his 
friends  at  home  may  see  it  as  he  sees  it,  and 
with  his  sense  of  proportion.  If  I  could  only 
do  it,  as  well  as  I  intend  it,  my  pictures  would 
create  a  truer  sympathy  between  the  home  and 
the  trench.  Some  would  find  comfort  for  their 
hearts,  and  others  would  awake  to  a  new  and 
noble  seriousness.  Soldiers  have  suffered 
much  through  imperfect  sympathies.  They 
have  been  pitied  for  the  wrong  things,  and 
left  to  freeze  when  they  needed  warmth. 
Only  when  we  realize  their  dignity  and  great- 
ness and  the  true  nature  of  their  experiences 
can  we  be  their  comrades  and  helpers.  Life 
at  the  Front  is  brutal  and  terrifying,  and  yet 
our  soldiers  are  neither  brutalized  nor  terror- 
ized, for  there  is  something  great  and  noble 
at  the  Front  which  keeps  life  pure  and  sweet 
and  the  men  gentle  and  chivalrous.  When 
"the  boys"  come  home  their  friends  will,  m 
almost  every  case,  find  them  just  as  bright, 
affectionate  and  good  as  when  they  went  out. 
The  only  change  will  be  a  subtle  one — a  deep- 
ening in  character  and  manly  quality,  a  broad- 
ening in  mind  and  creed,  and  an  impatience 
with  cant  and  make-believe  whether  in  politics 
or  business,  Christianity  or  Rationalism. 
There  will  be  an  air  of  Indefinable  greatness 


Preface  11 

about  them  as  of  men  who  have  been  at  grips 
with  the  realities  of  life  and  death. 

In  a  footnote  to  one  of  his  songs,  Edward 
Teschemacher  says  that  the  gypsies,  as  they 
wander  through  the  country,  leave  a  sprinkling 
of  grass  or  wild  flowers  at  the  cross-roads  to 
indicate,  to  those  who  come  after  them,  the 
road  they  have  taken.  These  flowers  are 
known  as  the  "Patterain." 

These  essays  are  my  Patterain — wild  flowers 
plucked  in  France,  and  left  to  mark  the  red 
path  trod  during  the  months  I  have  been  with 
my  comrades  at  the  Front. 

I  would  the  flowers  were  worthier,  but  such 
as  I  have,  I  give;  and  they  are  taken  out  of 
my  heart. 

"Where  my  caravan  has  rested 

Flowers   I    leave   you   on   the   grass; 

All   the   flowers   of   love   and   memory; 

You  will  find  them  when  you  pass." 

THOMAS  TIPLADY. 

British  Expeditionary  Force,  France. 


CONTENTS 

CHAP.  PAGB 

I.  The  Swan  at  Ypres    .       .       .15 

II.  The  Roadmakers  ....  25 

III.  The  Glamour  of  the  Front    .  41 

IV.  A  White  Handkerchief     .       .  52 
V.  The  Songs  Our  Soldiers  Sing.  58 

VI.  Easter  Sunday      ....  71 

VII.  "Now  THE  Day  is  Over"  .       .  82 

VIII.  Sons  of  the  Motherland  .       .  loi 

IX.  The  Terror  by  Night       .       .  109 

X.  "Eton  Boys  Never  Duck!"     .  124 

XL  "Missing" 130 

XII.  "It  Must  be  Sunday"       .       .  141 

XIII.  Our  Tommies  Never  Fail  Us  .  149 

XIV.  The  Cross  at  Neuve  Chapelle  157 
XV.  The  Children  of  Our  Dead    .  167 

XVI.  A  Funeral  under  Fire      .       .  178 

XVII.  A  Soldier's  Calvary  .       .       .  182 

XVIII.  The  Hospital  Train    .       .       .  194 

XIX.  After  Winter,  Spring        .       .  201 

13 


THE  SWAN  AT  YPRES 

FOR  three  years  the  storm  center  of  the 
British  battle  front  has  been  at  Ypres. 
Every  day  and  night  it  has  been  the 
standing  target  of  thousands  of  guns.  Yet, 
amid  all  the  havoc  and  thunder  of  the  artillery, 
the  graceful  white  form  of  a  swan  had  been 
seen  gliding  over  the  water  of  the  moat.  It 
never  lacked  food,  and  was  always  welcome 
to  a  share  of  Tommy's  rations.  In  the  Battle 
of  Messines — I  had  the  story  first-hand  from 
a  lieutenant  of  artillery  whose  battery  was 
hidden  close  by,  and  who  was  an  eye-witness 
of  the  incident — a  shell  burst  near  the  swan, 
and  it  was  mortally  wounded.  For  three  long 
years  it  had  spread  its  white  wings  as  gallantly 
as  the  white  sails  of  Drake's  flagship  when  he 
sailed  out  of  Plymouth  Sound  to  pluck  the  beard 
of  the  Spaniard.  But  now  its  adventurous 
voyaging  was  over.  Another  beautiful  and 
innocent  thing  had  been  destroyed  by  the  war 
and  had  passed  beyond  recall.  There  was  no 
dying  swan-song  heard  on  the  waters,  but  all 

15 


16  The  Swan  at  Ypres 

who  saw  its  passing  felt  that  the  war  had  taken 
on  a  deeper  shade  of  tragedy. 

Many  a  "white  man"  had  been  slain  near 
the  spot  but  somehow  the  swan  seemed  a 
mystical  being,  and  invulnerable.  It  was  a  relic 
of  the  days  of  peace,  and  a  sign  of  the  survival 
of  purity  and  grace  amid  the  horrors  and 
cruelties  of  war.  It  spoke  of  the  sacred  things 
that  yet  remain — the  beautiful  things  of  the 
soul  upon  which  war  can  lay  no  defiling  finger. 
Now  it  had  gone  from  the  water  and  Ypres 
seems  more  charred  than  ever,  and  the  war 
more  terrible.  The  death  of  the  swan  revealed 
against  its  white  wings  the  peculiar  inhumanity 
of  the  present  war.  It  is  a  war  in  which  the 
enemy  spares  nothing  and  no  one.  He  is  more 
blind  and  merciless  than  the  Angel  of  Death 
which  swept  over  Egypt,  for  the  angel  had 
regard  to  the  blood  which  the  Israelites  had 
sprinkled  over  the  lintels  of  their  doors  and 
he  passed  by  in  mercy.  To  the  German  Eagle 
every  living  creature  is  legitimate  prey.  No 
blood  upon  the  lintel  can  save  the  inmate;  not 
even  the  cross  of  blood  on  the  hospital  tent  or 
ship.  Wounded  or  whole,  combatant  or  non- 
combatant,  its  beak  and  talons  tear  the  tender 
flesh  of  all  and  its  lust  is  not  sated. 

In  Belgium  and  Serbia  it  is  believed  that 
more  women  and  children  perished  than  men. 


The  Swan  at  Ypres  17 

Things  too  hideous  for  words  were  done  pub- 
licly in  the  market-squares.  Neither  age  nor 
sex  escaped  fire  and  sword.  The  innocent  babe 
was  left  to  suck  the  breast  of  its  dead  mother 
or  was  dandled  on  the  point  of  the  bayonet. 
What  resistance  can  the  Belgian  swan  make 
to  the  German  eagle?  It  needs  must  lie  torn 
and  bleeding  beneath  its  talons.  The  German 
Emperor  has  waded  deeper  in  blood  than 
Macbeth,  and  has  slain  the  innocent  in  their 
sleep.  Even  the  sea  is  full  of  the  women, 
children,  and  non-combatant  men  he  has 
drowned.  His  crown  is  cemented  together  with 
innocent  blood  and  its  jewels  are  the  eyes  of 
murdered  men  and  women.  The  wretched 
man  has  made  rivers  of  blood  to  flow  yet  not 
a  drop  in  them  is  from  his  own  veins  or  the 
veins  of  his  many  sons.  Napoleon  risked  his 
life  with  his  men  in  every  battle  but  this  man 
never  once.  While  sending  millions  to  their 
death  he  yet  consents  to  live,  and  protects  his 
life  with  the  anxious  care  a  miser  bestows  on 
his  gold.  Alone  among  large  famihes  in  Ger- 
many his  household  is  without  a  casualty. 
Though  a  nation  be  white  and  innocent  as  the 
Belgian  swan  it  will  not  escape  his  sword,  and 
he  will  swoop  upon  it  the  more  readily  because 
it  is  unarmed.  The  swan  cannot  live  where 
the  eagle  flies,  and  one  or  the  other  must  die. 


18  The  Swan  at  Ypres 

But  the  stricken  swan  of  Ypres  is  not  merely 
the  symbol  of  Belgium  and  her  fate.  There 
are  other  innocents  who  have  perished  or  been 
sorely  wounded.  The  whole  creation  is  groan- 
ing and  travailing  in  pain.  The  neutral  nations 
are  suffering  with  the  belligerent,  and  the  lower 
creatures  are  suffering  with  mankind. 

Next  to  seeing  wounded  men  on  the  roads  at 
the  front,  I  think  the  saddest  sight  is  that  of 
dying  horses  and  mules.  Last  winter  they  had 
to  stand,  with  little  cover,  exposed  to  the  bitter 
blasts.  It  was  impossible  to  keep  them  clean 
or  dry,  for  the  roads  were  churned  into  liquid 
mud  and  both  mules  and  drivers  were  plastered 
with  it  from  head  to  foot.  To  make  things 
worse  there  was  a  shortage  of  fodder;  and 
horses  waste  away  rapidly  under  ill-feeding. 
Before  the  fine  weather  had  given  them  a 
chance  to  recover  weight  and  strength,  the 
Battle  of  Arras  began,  and  every  living  beast 
of  burden,  as  well  as  every  motor-engine,  was 
strained  to  its  utmost.  The  mule  is  magnificent 
for  war,  and  our  battles  have  been  won  as 
much  by  mules  as  men.  Haig  could  rely  on 
one  as  much  as  on  the  other.  The  mule  will 
eat  anything,  endure  anything,  and,  when  un- 
derstood and  humored  by  its  driver,  will  do 
anything.  It  works  until  it  falls  dead  by  the 
roadside.     In  the  spring,  hundreds  died  in  har- 


The  Swan  at  Ypres  19 

ness.  In  fact,  few  die  except  in  harness.  They 
die  facing  the  foe,  dragging  rations  along  shell- 
swept  roads  to  the  men  in  the  trenches. 

On  two  miles  of  road  I  have  counted  a  dozen 
dead  mules;  and  burial  parties  are  sent  out  to 
put  them  out  of  sight.  One  night,  alone,  I  got 
three  dying  mules  shot.  The  road  was  crowded 
with  traffic,  yet  it  was  difficult  to  find  either 
an  officer  with  a  revolver  or  a  transport-driver 
with  a  rifle.  I  had  to  approach  scores  before 
I  could  find  a  man  who  had  the  means  to  put 
a  mule  out  of  its  misery;  and  we  were  within 
two  miles  of  our  Front.  So  rigid  is  our  line  of 
defense  that  those  behind  it  do  not  trouble  to 
take  arms.  Even  when  I  found  a  rifleman  he 
hesitated  to  shoot  a  mule.  There  is  a  rule  that 
no  horse  or  mule  must  be  shot  without  proper 
authority,  and  when  you  consider  the  enormous 
cost  of  one  the  necessity  for  the  rule  is  obvious. 
I  had  therefore  to  assure  a  rifleman  that  I 
would  take  full  responsibility  for  his  action. 
He  then  loaded  up,  put  the  nozzle  against  the 
mule's  forehead  and  pulled  the  trigger.  A 
tremor  passed  through  the  poor  thing's  body 
and  its  troubles  were  over.  It  had  come  all 
the  way  from  South  America  to  wear  itself  out 
carrying  food  to  fighting  men,  and  It  died  by 
the  road  when  its  last  ounce  of  strength  was 
spent. 


20  The  Swan  at  Ypres 

The  mule  knows  neither  love  nor  offspring. 
Apart  from  a  few  gambols  in  the  field,  or 
while  tethered  to  the  horse-lines,  it  knows 
nothing  but  work.  It  is  the  supreme  type  of 
the  drudge.  It  is  one  of  the  greatest  factors 
in  the  war,  and  yet  it  receives  scarcely  any 
recognition  and  more  of  whipping  than  of 
praise.  Only  too  often  I  have  seen  their  poor 
shell-mangled  bodies  lying  by  the  roadside 
waiting  till  the  battle  allowed  time  for  their 
burial.  Yet  what  could  be  more  innocent  of 
any  responsibility  for  the  war?  They  are  as 
innocent  as  the  swan  on  the  moat  at  Ypres. 

Yet  the  greatest  suffering  among  innocents  is 
not  found  at  the  Front  at  all.  It  is  found  at 
home.  At  the  Front  there  is  suffering  of  body 
?nd  mind,  but  at  home  there  is  the  suffering 
of  the  heart.  Every  soldier  knows  that  his 
mother  and  wife  suffer  more  than  he  does,  and 
he  pities  them  from  his  soul.  War  is  a  cross 
on  which  Woman  is  crucified.  The  soldier  dies 
of  his  wounds  in  the  morning  of  life,  but  his 
wife  lingers  on  In  pain  through  the  long  garish 
day  until  the  evening  shadows  fall.  There  is 
no  laughter  at  home  such  as  you  hear  at  the 
Front,  or  even  in  the  hospitals.  One  finds  a 
gayety  among  the  regiments  in  France  such  as 
is  unknown  among  the  people  left  at  home.  It 
is  the  sunshine  of  the  street  as  compared  with 


The  Swan  at  Ypres  21 

the  Hght  in  a  shaded  room.  There  is  a  youth 
and  buoyancy  at  the  Front  that  one  misses 
sadly  in  the  homeland. 

To  a  true  woman  with  a  son  or  husband  at 
the  Front,  life  becomes  a  nightmare.  To  her 
distorted  imagination  the  most  important  man 
in  the  country  is  not  the  Prime  Minister  but 
the  postman.  She  cannot  get  on  with  her 
breakfast  for  listening  for  his  footsteps.  There 
is  no  need  for  him  to  knock  at  the  door,  she 
has  heard  him  open  the  gate  and  walk  up  the 
gravel  path.  Her  heart  is  tossed  like  a  bubble 
on  the  winds  of  hope  and  fear.  She  finds  her- 
self behind  the  door  without  knowing  how  she 
got  there,  and  her  hand  trembles  as  she  picks 
up  the  letter  to  see  if  the  address  is  in  "his" 
handwriting  or  an  official's.  The  words,  "On 
His  Majesty's  Service,"  she  dreads  like  a 
witch's  incantation.  They  may  be  innocent 
enough,  and  cover  nothing  more  than  belated 
Commission  Papers,  but  she  trembles  lest  they 
should  be  but  the  fair  face  of  a  dark-hearted 
messenger,  who  is  to  blot  out  the  light  of  her 
life  forever.  If  she  goes  out  shopping  and  sees 
a  telegraph-boy  go  in  the  direction  of  her  home 
she  forgets  her  purchases  and  hurries  back  to 
see  if  he  is  going  to  knock  at  her  door.  The 
rosy-faced  messenger  has  become  a  sinister 
figure,  an  imp  from  the  nether  world.    He  may 


22  The  Swan  at  Ypres 

be  bringing  news  of  her  loved  one's  arrival  "on 
leave,"  but  so  many  evil  faces  of  fear  and 
doubt  peer  through  the  windows  of  her  heart 
that  she  cannot  believe  in  the  innocence  and 
good-will  of  the  whistling  boy.  Her  whole 
world  is  wrapped  up  in  his  little  orange-colored 
envelope. 

The  boys  at  the  Front  know  of  the  anxiety 
and  suspense  that  darken  their  homes,  and  they 
do  all  they  can  to  lighten  them.  There  were 
times  on  the  Somme  when  the  men  were  utterly 
exhausted  with  fighting  and  long  vigils  in  the 
trenches.  Water  was  scarce,  and  a  mild 
dysentery  came  into  evidence.  No  fire  could  be 
lighted  to  cook  food  or  make  hot  tea.  The 
ranks  had  been  thinned,  and  only  two  officers 
were  left  to  each  company.  The  weather  was 
bad  and  the  captured  trench  uncomfortable. 
Any  moment  word  might  come  for  another 
attack.  The  campaign  was  near  its  close,  and 
the  work  must  be  completed  despite  the  prev- 
alent exhaustion.  The  officers  were  too  tired, 
depressed  and  preoccupied  to  censor  hundreds 
of  letters.  In  front  of  him  each  could  see  a  gap- 
ing grave.  The  sun  was  rapidly  "going  west" 
and  leaving  them  to  the  cold  and  dark.  Noth- 
ing seemed  to  matter  in  comparison  with  that. 
To  hold  services  were  impossible  and  I  felt 
that  the  best  I  could  do  was  to  walk  through 


The  Swan  at  Ypres  23 

the  trench,  chat  with  the  officers  and  men, 
gather  up  the  men's  letters  and  take  them  back 
and  censor  in  my  tent.  This  gave  the  officers 
times  to  write  their  own,  and  an  opportunity 
to  post  them. 

But  note,  I  pray  you,  the  nobility  of  these 
gallant  fellows.  All  of  them  were  exhausted 
and  depressed.  The  shadows  of  death  were 
thick  about  them,  yet  when  I  opened  their  let- 
ters, I  found  myself — with  two  exceptions  out 
of  three  or  four  hundred — in  an  entirely  dif- 
ferent atmosphere.  It  was  a  sunny  atmosphere 
in  which  birds  were  singing.  The  men  said 
nothing  of  their  suffering,  their  depression, 
their  fears  for  the  future.  The  black  wings  of 
death  cast  no  shadow  over  their  pages.  They 
said  they  were  "all  right,"  "merry  and  bright" 
and  "soon  going  back  for  a  long  rest."  They 
told  their  mothers  what  kind  of  cigarettes  to 
send,  and  gave  them  details  how  to  make  up 
the  next  parcel.  They  talked  as  if  death  were 
out  of  sight — a  sinister  fellow  with  whom  they 
had  nothing  to  do. 

The  officers,  of  course,  censor  their  own 
letters,  so  I  did  not  see  how  they  wrote.  But 
I  know.  They  wrote  as  the  men  wrote,  and 
probably  with  a  still  lighter  touch.  Their 
homes  were  dark  enough  with  anxiety,  yet  not 
by  any  word  of  theirs  would  the  shadows  be 


9,4)  The  Swan  at  Ypres 

deepened.  They  could  not  shield  themselves 
from  war's  horrors  but  they  would  do  their 
best  to  shield  their  white  swans  at  home.  They 
could  not  keep  their  women  folk  out  of  the 
war,  but  they  would  deliver  them  from  its 
worst  horrors.  Not  till  they  had  fallen  would 
they  let  the  shafts  pass  them  to  their  mothers 
and  wives;  rather  would  they  gather  them  in 
their  own  breasts.  In  the  hour  of  the  world's 
supreme  tragedy  there  was  a  woman  standing 
by  the  cross,  and  the  august  Sufferer,  with  dy- 
ing breath,  bade  His  closest  friend  take  her, 
when  the  last  beam  faded,  to  his  own  home 
and  be  in  His  place,  a  son  to  her.  I  know 
no  scene  that  better  represents  the  feelings  of 
our  soldiers  towards  their  loved  ones  at  home. 
Their  women  gave  them  inspiration  and  joy 
in  the  days  of  peace,  and  they  still  float  before 
their  vision  amid  the  blackened  ruins  of  war, 
as  beautiful  and  stainless  in  their  purity  as  the 
white  swan  on  the  moat  of  Ypres. 


II 

THE  ROADMAKERS 

WE  had  just  marched  from  one  part  of 
the  Front  to  another  and  by  a  round- 
about way.  Each  morning  the 
Quartermaster  and  "the  billeting  party"  went 
on  before,  and  each  evening  we  slept  in  a  vil- 
lage that  was  strange  to  us.  Each  of  the  men 
carried  on  his  back  a  pack  and  equipment 
weighing  about  eighty  or  ninety  pounds. 
Through  sleet  and  blizzard  and,  for  the 
most  part,  through  open,  exposed  country, 
we  continued  our  march  without  a  day  of 
rest.  By  the  fifth  evening  we  reached  the  vil- 
lage where  we  were  to  have  three  or  four 
weeks  of  rest  and  training  before  entering  the 
trenches  for  the  spring  offensive.  We  had 
unpacked  and  were  sitting  at  dinner  when  a 
telegram  came  announcing  that  all  previous 
plans  were  canceled,  and  that  at  dawn  we  must 
take  to  the  road  again.  Something  unexpected 
had  happened,  good  or  ill,  we  knew  not  which, 
and  we  had  to  enter  the  line  in  front  of  Arras. 

25 


26  The  Roadmakers 

For  three  days  more  we  marched.  Daily  the 
sound  of  the  guns  came  nearer,  and  the  men 
were  tired  and  footsore.  They  were  also 
deeply  disappointed  of  the  long  rest  to  which 
they  had  been  looking  forward  after  a  winter 
in  the  trenches  at  Neuve  Chapelle.  Yet  they 
marched  cheerily  enough.  "It's  the  War!" 
they  said  one  to  another  and,  true  to  their  own 
philosophy,  "packed  up  their  troubles  in  their 
old  kit  bags  and  smiled."  When  any  man 
faltered  a  bit,  as  if  about  to  fall  out  by  the 
way,  the  others  cheered  him  on  by  singing 
"Old  Soldiers  never  die"  to  the  tune  of  the 
old  Sunday  school  hymn,  "Kind  words  can 
never  die."  Sometimes  an  officer  would 
shoulder  a  man's  rifle  to  the  end  of  the  march, 
or  until  he  felt  better.  In  eight  unbroken  days 
of  marching  we  covered  ninety-eight  miles  and 
finally  arrived  at  a  camp  of  huts  within  a  day's 
march  of  the  trenches  we  are  to  occupy.  Here, 
where  our  huts  stand  like  islands  in  a  sea  of 
mud,  we  are,  unless  suddenly  needed,  to  take 
a  few  days'  rest. 

On  the  ninety-eight  miles  of  road  over  which 
we  tram.ped,  we  passed  company  after  com- 
pany of  British  roadmakers.  In  some  parts 
they  were  widening  the  road,  in  other  parts 
repairing  it.  The  roads  of  Northeastern 
France  are  handed  over  to  our  care  as  com- 


The  Roadmakers  27 

pletely  as  if  they  were  in  England.  Our  road- 
makers  are  everywhere,  and  as  we  pass  they 
stand,  pick  or  shovel  in  hand,  to  salute  the 
colonel  and  shout  some  humorous  remark  to 
the  laughing  riflemen — only  to  get  back  as  much 
as  they  give. 

This  morning  I  visited  the  neighboring 
village  to  arrange  for  a  Sunday  service.  The 
roads  are  hopeless  for  bicycles  at  this  time  of 
the  year,  so  I  fell  back  on  Adam's  method  of 
getting  about.  The  road  to  the  village  was 
torn  and  broken,  and  "thaw  precautions"  were 
being  observed.  Everywhere  it  was  ankle-deep 
in  mud  and,  in  the  holes,  knee-deep.  Innumer- 
able motor-wagons  had  crushed  it  beneath  their 
ponderous  weight,  and  my  feet  had  need  of 
my  eyes  to  guide  them.  In  skirting  the  holes 
and  rough  places,  I  added  quite  a  mile  to  the 
journey. 

It  was  annoying  to  get  along  so  slowly,  and 
I  called  the  road  "rotten"  and  blamed  the  War 
for  its  destructive  work.  Then  I  saw  that  I 
had  been  unjust  in  judgment.  The  War  had 
constructed  more  than  it  had  destroyed.  The 
road  had  been  a  little  muddy  country  lane,  but 
the  scfldiers  had  made  it  wide  as  Fleet  Street, 
and  it  was  bearing  a  mightier  traffic  than  that 
famous  thoroughfare  night  and  day.  The 
little  road  with  its  mean  perfections  and  im- 


28  The  Roadmakers 

perfections  had  gone,  and  the  large  road  with 
big  faults  and  big  virtues  had  come.  This 
soldiers'  road  has  faults  the  farmers'  road 
knew  not,  but  then  it  has  burdens  and  duties 
unknown  before,  and  it  has  had  no  time  to 
prepare  for  them.  Like  our  boy-officers  who 
are  bearing  grown  men's  burdens  of  responsi- 
bility and  bearing  them  well,  the  road  has  had 
no  time  to  harden.  To  strengthen  itself  for 
its  duties,  it  eats  up  stones  as  a  giant  eats  up 
food.  I  had  no  right  to  look  for  the  smooth- 
ness of  Oxford  Street  or  the  Strand.  Such 
avenues  represent  the  work  of  centuries,  this 
of  days.  They  have  grown  with  their  burdens, 
but  this  has  had  vast  burdens  thrown  upon  it 
suddenly,  and  while  it  was  immature.  Oxford 
Street  and  Fleet  Street  are  the  roads  of  peace, 
and  laden  with  wealth  and  luxury,  law  and 
literature — things  that  can  wait.  But  on  this 
road  of  the  soldiers'  making,  nothing  is  al- 
lowed except  it  be  concerned  with  matters  of 
life  and  death.  It  is  the  road  of  war,  and 
there  is  a  terrible  urgency  about  it.  Over  it 
pass  ammunition  to  the  guns,  rations  to  the 
soldiers  in  the  trenches,  ambulances  bearing 
back  the  wounded  to  the  hospital.  Whatever 
its  conditions  the  work  must  be  done,  and  there 
is  no  room  for  a  halting  prudence  or  the  pride 
of  appearance.    Rough  though  it  is  and  muddy. 


The  Roadmakers  29 

over  it  Is  passing,  for  all  who  have  eyes  to 
see,  a  new  and  better  civilization  and  a  wider 
liberty.  I  had  grumbled  at  the  worn-out  road 
when  I  ought  to  have  praised  it.  I  was  as  an 
ingrate  who  finds  fault  with  his  father's  hands 
because  they  are  rough  and  horny. 

It  was  a  group  of  soldier-roadmakers  who 
brought  me  to  my  senses.  They  were  making 
a  new  road  through  the  fields,  and  it  branched 
off  from  the  one  I  was  on.  I  saw  its  crude 
beginning  and  considered  the  burdens  it  would 
soon  have  to  bear.  As  I  stood  watching  these 
English  roadmakers  my  mind  wandered  down 
the  avenues  of  time,  and  I  saw  the  Roman 
soldiers  building  their  Immortal  roads  through 
England.  They  were  joining  town  to  town  and 
country  to  country.  They  were  introducing 
the  people  of  the  North  to  those  of  the  South, 
and  bringing  the  East  into  fellowship  with  the 
West.  I  saw  come  along  their  roads  the 
union  of  all  England  followed  at,  some  dis- 
tance, by  that  of  England,  Scotland  and  Wales; 
and  I  regretted  that  there  was  no  foundation 
on  which  they  could  build  a  road  to  Ireland. 
I  saw  on  those  soldier-built  roads,  also,  Chris- 
tianity and  Civilization  marching,  and  in  the 
villages  and  towns  by  the  wayside  they  found 
a  home  whence  they  have  sent  out  missionaries 
and  teachers  to  the  ends  of  the  earth. 


30  The  Roadmakers 

"The  captains  and  the  kings  depart."  The 
Roman  Empire  is  no  more,  but  the  Roman 
roads  remain.  They  direct  our  modern  life 
and  business  with  an  inevitability  the  Roman 
soldiers  never  exercised.  In  two  thousand 
years  the  Empire  may  have  fallen  apart  and 
become  a  thing  of  the  past;  but  the  roads  her 
sons  have  built  in  France,  these  two-and-a-half 
years,  will  abide  forever  and  be  a  perpetual 
blessing;  for,  of  things  made  by  hands,  there 
is,  after  the  church  and  the  home,  nothing  more 
sacred  than  the  road.  The  roadmaker  does 
more  for  the  brotherhood  of  man  and  the 
federation  of  the  world  than  the  most  eloquent 
orator.  The  roadmaker  has  his  dreams  and 
visions  as  well  as  the  poet,  and  he  expresses 
them  in  brolcen  stones.  He  uses  stones  as 
artists  use  colors,  and  orators  words.  He 
touches  them — transient  as  they  are — with  im- 
mortality. A  little  of  his  soul  sticks  to  each 
stone  he  uses,  and  though  the  stone  perishes 
the  road  remains.  His  body  may  perish  more 
quickly  than  the  stones  and  be  laid  in  some 
quiet  churchyard  by  the  wayside,  but  his  soul 
will  never  utterly  forsake  the  road  he  helped 
to  make.  In  man's  nature,  and  in  all  his  works, 
there  is  a  strange  blending  of  the  temporal 
and  the  eternal,  and  in  nothing  is  it  more 
marked  than  in  the  roads  he  builds. 


The  Roadmakers  31 

The  roadmaker  Is  the  pioneer  among  men 
and  without  him  there  would  be  neither  artist 
nor  orator.  He  goes  before  civilization  as 
John  the  Baptist  went  before  Christ,  and  he 
is  as  rough  and  elemental.  Hard  as  his  own 
stones,  without  him  mankind  would  have  re- 
mained savage  and  suspicious  as  beasts  of  prey; 
and  art,  science  and  literature  would  have  had 
no  beginning.  His  road  may  begin  In  war,  but 
it  ends  in  peace. 

The  pioneers  I  saw  roadmaking  were,  for  the 
greater  part,  over  military  age,  and  such  as 
I  had  often  seen  leaning  heavily  on  the  bar 
of  some  miserable  beer-house.  In  those  days 
they  seemed  of  the  earth,  earthy,  and  the  stars 
that  lure  to  high  thoughts  and  noble  en- 
deavors seemed  to  shine  on  them  in  vain.  But 
one  never  knows  what  is  passing  in  the  heart 
of  another.  Of  all  things  human  nature  Is 
the  most  mysterious  and  deceptive.  God  seems 
to  play  at  hide-and-seek  with  men.  He  hides 
pearls  in  oysters  lying  in  the  ooze  of  the  sea; 
and  gold  under  the  everlasting  snows  of  the 
Arctic  regions.  Diamonds  he  buries  deep  down 
in  the  dirt  beneath  the  African  veldt.  He 
places  Christ  in  a  carpenter's  shop,  Joan  of 
Arc  In  a  peasant's  dwelling,  Lincoln  In  a 
settler's  cabin,  and  Burns  in  a  crude  cottage 
built  by   his   father's   own  hands.     He   hides 


32  The  Roadmakers 

generous  impulses  and  heroic  traits  in  types  of 
men  that  in  our  mean  imaginations  we  can  only 
associate  with  the  saw-dust  sprinkled  bar-room. 
Only  when  war  or  pestilence  have  kindled  their 
fierce  and  lurid  flames  do  we  find  the  hidden 
nobility  that  God  has  stored  away  in  strange 
places — places  often  as  foul  and  unlikely  as 
those  where  a  miser  stores  his  gold. 

When  Diogenes  went  about  with  a  candle 
in  search  of  an  honest  man  did  he  think  to 
look  in  the  taverns  and  slums?  I  fancy  not. 
Not  Diogenes'  candle  but  the  "Light  of  the 
World"  was  needed  to  reveal  the  treasure  God 
has  hidden  in  men.  Christ  alone  knew  where 
His  Father  had  hidden  His  wealth  and  could 
guide  us  to  it.  In  this  time  of  peril  when 
every  man  with  any  nobility  in  him  is  needed 
to  stand  in  the  deadly  breach,  and  with  body 
and  soul  hold  back  the  brutality  and  tyranny 
that  would  enslave  the  world  we  have,  like  the 
woman  in  the  parable,  lit  a  candle  and  searched 
every  corner  of  our  kingdom  diligently.  In 
the  dust  of  unswept  corners  we  have  found 
many  a  coin  of  value  that,  but  for  our  ex- 
ceeding need,  would  have  remained  hidden. 
To  me,  the  wealth  and  wonder  of  the  war  have 
been  found  in  its  sweepings.  Time  and  again 
we  have  found  those  who  were  lost,  and  a  new 
happiness  has  come  into  life.     To  the  end  of 


The  Roadmakers  33 

my  days  I  shall  walk  the  earth  with  reverent 
feet.  I  did  not  know  men  were  so  great.  I 
have  looked  at  life  without  seeing  the  gold 
through  the  dust,  and  have  been  no  better  than 
a  Kaffir  child  playing  marbles  with  diamonds, 
unaware  of  their  value.  I  have  gone  among 
my  fellows  with  proud  step  where  I  ought  to 
have  walked  humbly,  and  have  rushed  in  where 
angels  feared  to  tread. 

Life  at  the  Front  has  made  me  feel  mean 
among  mankind.  My  comrades  have  been  so 
great.  In  days  long  past,  I  have  trodden  on 
the  hem  of  Christ's  garment  without  knowing 
it.  I  have  not  seen  its  jewels  because  I,  and 
others,  have  so  often  trodden  it  in  the  mire. 
Yet,  through  the  mire  of  slum  and  tavern,  the 
jewels  have  emerged  pearl-white  and  ruby-red. 
And  I  feel  that  I  owe  to  a  large  part  of  man- 
kind an  apology  for  having  been  before  the 
war  so  blind,  callous  and  superficial.  But  for 
the  agony  and  bloody  sweat  in  which  I  have 
seen  my  fellows,  I  should  never  have  known 
them  for  what  they  are,  and  the  darkness  of 
death  would  have  covered  me  before  I  had 
realized  what  made  the  death  of  Christ 
and  the  sufferings  of  all  the  martyrs  well 
worth  while.  Now  there  is  a  new  light  upon 
my  path  and  I  shall  see  the  features  of 
an   angel  through  the   dirt  on   a   slum-child's 


34  The  Roadmakers 

face.  Words  of  Christ  that  once  lay  in  the 
shadow  now  stand  out  clearly,  for  whenever 
we  get  below  the  surface  of  life  we  come  to 
Him.  He  is  there  before  us,  and  awaiting  our 
coming. 

I  also  understand,  now,  something  of  the 
meaning  of  the  words  which  the  Unemployed 
scrawled  upon  their  banner  before  the  war — 
"Damn  your  charity.  Give  us  work."  It  was 
a  deep  and  true  saying,  and  taught  them  by  a 
stern  teacher.  When  the  war  came  we  did 
"damn  our  charity"  and  gave  them  "work." 
Many  a  man  got  his  first  chance  of  doing  "a 
man's  job,"  and  rose  to  the  full  height  of  his 
manhood.  Many  hitherto  idle  and  drunken, 
were  touched  in  their  finer  parts.  They  saw 
their  country's  need,  and  though  their  country 
had  done  little  to  merit  their  gratitude,  they 
responded  to  her  call  before  some  of  the  more 
prudent  and  sober.  Those  who  were  young 
went  out  to  fight,  and  every  officer  can  tell 
stories  about  their  behavior  in  the  hours  of 
danger  and  suffering  which  bring  tears  to  the 
eyes  and  penitence  to  the  heart.  Those  above 
military  age  went  out  to  make  roads  over  which 
their  younger  brothers  and  sons  could  march, 
and  get  food,  ammunition,  or  an  ambulance 
according  to  their  needs.  Among  the  group 
of  middle-aged  roadmakers  that  I   saw  there 


The  Roadinakers  35 

were,  I  doubt  not,  some  who  had  been  counted 
wastrels  and  who  had  made  but  a  poor  show 
of  life.  Now  they  had  got  work  that  made 
them  feel  that  they  were  men  and  not  mendi- 
cants, and  they  were  "making  good." 

While  I  watched  them  a  lark  rose  from  a 
neighboring  field  and  sang  over  them  a  song 
of  the  coming  spring.  It  was  the  first  lark  I 
had  heard  this  year,  and  I  was  glad  it  mingled 
its  notes  with  the  sounds  of  the  roadmakers' 
shovels.  Nature  is  not  so  indifferent  to  human 
struggles  as  it  sometimes  seems.  The  man 
who  stands  steadfastly  by  the  right  and  true 
and  bids  tyranny  and  wrong  give  place  will 
find,  at  last,  that  he  is  in  league  with  the  stones 
of  the  field  and  the  birds  of  the  air,  and  that 
the  stars  in  their  courses  fight  for  him.  The 
roadmaker  and  the  lark  are  born  friends. 
Both  are  heralds  of  coming  gladness,  and  while 
one  works,  the  other  sings.  True  work  and 
pure  song  are  never  far  apart.  They  are  both 
born  of  hope  and  seek  to  body  forth  the  im- 
mortal. A  man  works  while  he  has  faith. 
Would  he  sow  if  he  did  not  believe  the  promise, 
made  under  the  rainbow,  that  seed-time  and 
harvest  shall  never  fail?  Or  could  he  sing 
with  despair  choking  his  heart?  Yet  he  can 
sing  with  death  choking  it.  In  the  very  act 
of  dying  Wesley  sang  the  hymn,  'TU  praise  my 


36  The  Roadmakers 

Maker  while  I've  breath."  He  sang  because 
of  the  hope  of  immortahty.  He  was  not  turn- 
ing his  face  to  the  blank  wall  of  death  and 
oblivion  but  to  the  opening  gate  of  a  fuller 
life.  He  was  soaring  sunwards  like  the  lark, 
and  soaring  sang, 

"And  when  my  voice  is  lost  in  death 
Praise   shall    employ   my   nobler   powers; 
My   days   of   praise    shall   ne'er   be   past." 

Joy  can  sing  and  Sorrow  can  sing,  but 
Despair  is  dumb.  It  has  not  even  a  cry,  for  a 
cry  is  a  call  for  help  as  every  mother  knows, 
and  Despair  knows  no  helper.  Even  the  sad- 
dest song  has  hope  in  it,  as  the  dreariest  desert 
has  a  well.  The  loved  one  is  dead  but  Love 
lives  on  and  whispers  of  a  trysting  place  beyond 
this  bourne  of  time,  where  loved  and  lover 
meet  again.  The  patriot's  life  may  be  pouring 
from  a  dozen  wounds  on  the  muddy  field  of 
battle,  but  his  fast-emptying  heart  is  singing 
with  each  heavy  beat,  "Who  dies,  if  my  country 
live?" 

Roadmakers  have  prepared  the  way  for 
missionaries  in  every  land.  Trail-blazers  are 
not  always  religious  men — often  they  are  wild, 
reckless  fellows  whom  few  would  allow  a  place 
in  the  Kingdom  of  God — but  is  not  their  work 
religious   in   its   final  upshot?      Do   they   not, 


The  Roadmakers  37 

however  unconsciously,  "prepare  the  way  of 
the  Lord,  make  straight  in  the  desert  a  high- 
way for  our  God?"  Close  on  their  heels  go 
the  missionaries,  urged  on  faster  by  the  pure 
love  of  souls  than  the  trader  by  love  of  lucre. 
The  greatest  among  the  roadmakers  was  a 
missionary  himself — David  Livingstone.  And 
for  such  an  one  the  name  Living-stone  is  per- 
fect. It  has  the  touch  of  destiny.  Through 
swamp  and  forest  he  went  where  white  feet 
had  never  trod,  and  blazed  a  trail  for  the  mes- 
sengers of  Christ,  until,  worn  out  with  fever 
and  hardship,  he  fell  asleep  at  his  prayers,  to 
wake  no  more  to  toil  and  suffering. 

But  while  the  roadmaker  bestows  benefits  on 
us  he  also  lays  obligations,  for  there  can  be 
no  enlargement  of  privilege  without  a  corre- 
sponding increase  of  responsibility.  The  roads 
the  men  are  making  here  in  France  will  be  good 
for  trade.  They  will  open  up  the  country  as 
did  the  military  roads  of  Caesar  and  Napoleon; 
and  along  them  soldiers  are  marching  who,  at 
tremendous  cost  to  themselves,  are  buying  for 
posterity  great  benefits,  and  laying  upon  poster- 
ity great  obligations.  Posterity  must  hold  and 
enlarge  the  liberties  won  for  them,  and  prove 
worthy  of  their  citizenship  by  resisting  tyranny 
"even  unto  blood."  We  are  here  because  our 
fathers  were  heroes  and  lovers  of  liberty.    Had 


38  The  Roadmakers 

they  been  cowards  and  slaves  theie  would  have 
been  no  war  for  us.  As  we  follow  our  fathers 
our  sons  must  be  ready  to  follow  us.  The 
present  springs  out  of  the  past,  and  the  future 
will  spring  out  of  the  present.  Inheritance 
implies  defense  on  the  part  of  the  inheritors. 

The  very  names  they  give  to  their  roads 
show  that  our  soldiers  have  grasped  this  fact. 
The  cold  canvas  hut  in  which  I  am  writing  is 
officially  described  as  No.  i  Hut,  Oxford 
Street.  A  little  farther  off,  and  running  parallel 
with  it,  is  Cambridge  Road.  There  is  also  an 
Eton  Road,  Harrow  Road,  and  Marlborough 
Road.  Students  of  the  universities  and  schools 
after  which  these  roads  are  named  are  out 
here  to  defend  what  these  institutions  have 
stood  for  through  the  hoary  centuries.  They 
are  out  to  preserve  the  true  conception  of 
Liberty  and  Fair-play,  and  to  build  roads  along 
which  all  peoples  who  desire  it  can  travel  un- 
molested by  attacks  from  either  tyrants  or 
anarchists. 

Right  from  the  beginning  of  the  war,  the 
idea  of  a  Road  has  taken  hold  of  the  imagina- 
tion of  our  soldiers.  The  first  divisions  came 
out  singing,  "It's  a  long,  long  way  to  Tip- 
perary,  but  my  heart's  right  there."  Nowa- 
days the  popular  song  is  "There's  a  long,  long 
trail  awinding  into  the  Land  of  my  dreams." 


The  Roadmakers  39 

They  are  making  a  Road  of  Liberty  along 
which  all  nations  may  pass  to  universal  peace 
and  brotherhood,  and  where  the  weak  will  be 
as  safe  from  oppression  as  the  strong.  "It's 
a  long,  long  way  to  go,"  but  they  have  seen 
their  goal  on  the  horizon,  and  will  either  reach 
it  or  die  on  the  way  to  it.  They  have  made 
up  their  minds  that  never  again  shall  the 
shadow  of  the  Kaiser's  mailed  fist,  or  that  any 
other  tyrant  fall  across  their  path.  These  men 
never  sing  of  war.  They  hate  war.  It  is  a 
brutal  necessity  forced  on  them  by  the  ambi- 
tion of  a  tyrant.  Their  songs  are  all  of  peace 
and  none  of  war.  Of  the  future  and  not  the 
present  they  sing: 

"Tiddley-iddley-ighty, 
Hurry  me  home  to  Blighty; 
Blighty  is  the  place   for  me." 

Whether  they  sing  with  levity  or  seriousness 
(and  levity  of  manner  often  veils  their  serious- 
ness of  feeling),  it  is  of  a  future  of  peace  and 
goodwill  they  sing.  To  them  the  war  is  a 
hard  road  leading  to  a  better  life  for  man- 
kind. It  is  to  them  what  the  desert  was  to 
the  Israelites,  when  they  left  the  bondage  of 
Egypt  for  the  liberty  of  the  Land  of  Promise. 
Therefore  they  must  tread  it  without  faltering 
even   as   Christ  trod  the   way   of  the   Cross. 


40  The  Roadmakers 

"There's  a  long,  long  trail  awinding  into  the 
Land  of  their  dreams"  and  they  will  not  lose 
faith  in  their  dreams  however  wearisome  the 
way.  Elderly  navvies  and  laborers  have  come 
to  smooth  the  roads  for  them,  and  nurses  are 
tending  those  who  have  fallen  broken  by  the 
way;  while  across  the  sundering  sea  are 
mothers  and  wives  whose  prayers  make  flowers 
spring  up  at  their  feet  and  blossoms  break  out 
oh  every  tree  that  fringes  the  side  of  the  road. 


Ill 

THE  GLAMOUR  OF  THE  FRONT 

THERE  is  an  undoubted  glamour  about 
the  Front,  which  when  at  home,  in  Eng- 
land, cannot  be  explained.  In  the  army 
or  out  of  it,  the  wine  of  life  is  white  and  still, 
but  at  the  Front  it  runs  red  and  sparkling. 
One  day  I  got  a  lift  in  a  motor-wagon  and 
sat  on  a  box  by  the  side  of  one  of  the  servants 
of  the  officer's  mess  at  the  Aerodrome  near 
by.  He  was  going  into  Doullens,  a  market 
town,  to  buy  food  and  some  little  luxuries. 
Captain  Ball,  V.  C,  the  prince  of  English 
flyers,  was,  up  to  the  time  of  his  death  in  the 
air,  a  member  of  the  mess,  and  the  servant 
was  telling  me  how  comfortable  all  the  officers 
make  their  quarters.  In  a  phrase  he  defined 
the  glamour  of  the  Front. 

"One  day,"  he  said,  "when  we  were  helping 
him  to  make  his  room  comfortable,  Captain 
Ball  burst  out  into  a  merry  laugh  and  chuckled, 
'We  haven't  long  to  live,  but  we  live  well  while 
we  do  live,'  " 

There  you  have  It.  Life  is  concentrated. 
41 


42  The  Glamour  of  the  Front 

Death  is  near — just  round  the  corner — so  the 
men  make  the  most  of  their  time  and  "live 
well."  It  has  the  same  quality  as  "leave"  at 
home.  Leave  is  short  and  uncertain,  so  we 
"live  well."  Our  friends  know  it  may  be  the 
last  sight  of  us,  and  we  know  it  may  be  our 
last  sight  of  them.  They  are  kind  and  gen- 
erous to  us,  as  we  are  to  them;  and  so,  the 
ten  days  of  "leave"  are  just  glorious.  Ruskin 
says  that  the  full  splendor  of  the  sunset  lasts 
but  a  second,  and  that  Turner  went  out  early 
in  the  evening  and  watched  with  rapt  attention 
for  that  one  second  of  supreme  splendor  and 
delight.  He  lived  for  sunsets  and  while  others 
were  balancing  their  accounts,  or  taking  tea,  he 
went  out  to  see  the  daily  miracle.  The  one 
second  in  which  he  saw  God  pass  by  in  the  glory 
of  the  sunset  was  to  him  worth  all  the  twent}^- 
four  hours.  For  one  second  in  each  day  he 
caught  the  glamour  of  earth  and  heaven,  and 
went  back  to  his  untidy  studios  blind  to  all  but 
the  splendor  he  had  seen. 

That  second  each  day  was  life,  indeed,  and 
the  glamour  of  the  Front  is  like  unto  it.  It  is 
the  place  where  life  sets,  and  the  darkness  of 
death  draws  on.  The  commonest  soldier  feels 
it  and  with  true  instinct,  not  less  true  because 
unconscious,  he  describes  death  at  the  Front 
as  "going  West."     It  is  the  presence  of  death 


The  Glamour  of  the  Front  43 

that  gives  the  Front  its  ghimour,  and  life  Its 
concentrated  joy  and  fascination.  Captain 
Ball  saw  it  with  the  intuition  of  genius  when 
he  said:  "We  haven't  long  to  live,  but  we  live 
well  while  we  do  live." 

The  immediate  presence  of  death  at  the 
Front  gives  tone  to  every  expression  of  life,  and 
makes  it  the  kindest  place  in  the  world.  No 
one  feels  he  can  do  too  much  for  you,  and 
there  is  nothing  you  would  not  do  for  another. 
Whether  you  are  an  officer  or  a  private,  you 
can  get  a  lift  on  any  road,  in  any  vehicle,  that 
has  an  inch  of  room  in  it.  How  often  have 
I  seen  a  dozen  tired  Tommies  clambering  up 
the  back  of  an  empty  motor-lorry  which  has 
stopped,  or  slowed  down,  to  let  them  get  In. 
It  is  one  of  the  merriest  sights  of  the  war  and 
redounds  to  the  credit  of  human  nature.  Cigar- 
ettes are  passed  round  by  those  who  have,  to 
those  who  have  not,  with  a  generosity  that  re- 
minds one  of  nothing  so  much  as  that  of  the 
early  Christians  who  "had  all  things  common; 
and  sold  their  possessions  and  goods,  and 
parted  them  to  all  men,  as  every  man  had 
need."  You  need  never  go  hungry  while  others 
have  food.  Officers  are  welcome  at  every  mess 
they  go  near,  and  privates  will  get  food  In  the 
servants'  kitchen  or  may  go  shares  with  the 
men  in  any  billet.     It  may  be  a  man's  own 


44  The  Glamour  of  the  Front 

fault  that  he  took  no  food  on  the  march,  and 
his  comrades  may  tell  him  so  in  plain  strong 
language,  but  they  will  compel  him  to  share 
what  they  have  just  the  same. 

One  wet  night  on  the  Somme  I  got  lost  in 
"Happy  Valley"  and  could  not  find  my  regi- 
ment. Seeing  a  light  in  a  tent,  I  made  for  it. 
It  was  a  pioneers'  tent,  but  fhey  invited  me  to 
come  in  out  of  the  storm  and  stay  the  night. 
They  were  at  supper  and  had  only  a  smaM 
supply  of  bully-beef,  biscuits  and  strong  tea; 
but  they  insisted  on  me  sharing  what  they  had. 
I  was  dripping  with  rain,  and  they  gave  me  one 
of  their  blankets.  One  of  them  gave  me  a 
box  to  sleep  on,  while  he  shared  his  chum's. 
Some  lost  privates  came  in  later  wet  to  the 
skin,  and  the  pioneers  gave  them  all  the  eat- 
ables left  over  from  supper,  and  shared  out 
their  blankets  and  clothes.  It  was  pure  Chris- 
tianity— whatever  creeds  they  may  think  they 
believe.  And  it  is  the  glamour  of  the  Front. 
England  feels  cold  and  dull  after  it.  Kindness 
and  comradeship  pervade  the  air  in-  France. 
You  feel  that  everyone  is  a  friend  and  brother. 
It  will  be  pretty  hard  for  chaplains  to  go  back 
to  their  churches.  They  have  been  spoiled  by 
too  much  kindness.  How  can  they  go  back 
to  the  cold  atmosphere  of  criticism  and  narrow 
judgments  which  prevail  In  so  many  churches 


The  Glamour  of  the  Front  45 

— that  is,  unless  the  war  has  brought  changes 
there  also?  And  after  preaching  to  dying  men 
who  listen  as  if  their  destiny  depended  upon 
their  hearing,  how  can  they  go  back,  to  pulpits 
where  large  numbers  in  the  congregations  re- 
gard their  messages  as  of  less  importance  than 
dinner,  and  as  merely  supplying  material  for 
an  exercise  in  more  or  less  kindly  criticism  dur- 
ing the  discussion  of  that  meal? 

The  glamour  of  the  services  at  the  Front! 
How  the  scenes  are  photographed  on  my 
heart!  As  a  congregation  sits  in  a  church  at 
home  how  stolid  its  features  often  are — how 
dull  its  eyes!  One  glance  around  and  the 
preacher's  heart  sinks  within  him  and  his  in- 
spiration flies  away.  Nothing  is  expected  of 
him,  and  nothing  particularly  desired.  People 
have  come  by  force  of  habit,  and  not  of  need. 
But  how  the  eyes  of  the  soldiers  in  France  glow 
and  burn;  how  their  features  speak,  and  make 
the  preacher  speak  in  reply!  Who  could  help 
being  eloquent  there !  Such  faces  would  make 
the  dumb  speak.  One  can  see  the  effect  of  his 
words  as  plainly  in  their  expressions  as  he  can 
see  the  effect  of  wind  on  a  cornfield.  Every 
emotion  from  humor  to  concern  leaps  from 
the  heart  to  the  face  as  the  subject  touches 
them  at,  first  this  point  of  their  life,  then  at  that. 
The   men's   eyes   are   unforgettable.      Months 


46  The  Glamour  of  the  Front 

afterwards  they  come  vividly  to  mind,  and  one 
is  back  again  answering  the  questions  they 
silently  ask,  and  seeing  the  look  of  content  or 
gratitude  that  takes  the  place  of  the  perplexed 
or  troubled  expression.  Eyes  are  said  to  be 
the  windows  of  the  soul,  and  as  I  have  spoken 
I  have  seen  men's  souls  looking  out.  At  home 
the  windows  are  darkened  and  there  seemed 
to  be  no  souls  behind  the  panes.  The  dwellers 
within  the  houses  are  busy  with  other  matters, 
and  will  not  come  to  the  windows.  The 
preacher  feels  like  an  organ-grinder  in  the 
street — those  who  hear  do  not  heed  nor  come 
to  the  windows  of  the  soul.  In  France  there 
is  a  soul  looking  out  at  every  window;  and  the 
preacher  sings — for  his  words  grow  rhythmic 
— to  his  listeners  of  the  love  of  God  and  of 
the  love  of  women  and  children  which  make 
sweet  this  vale  of  tears  and  light  man  on  his 
lone  way  beyond  the  grave. 

One  Sunday  in  hospital,  when  we  heard  the 
singing  of  a  hymn  in  the  ward  b^low,  a  young 
officer,  In  the  next  bed,  turned  to  me  and  said: 
"Why  doesn't  the  chaplain  hold  a  service  for 
us?  Why  does  he  only  hold  them  for  the 
Tommies?  We  need  them  and  want  them, 
just  as  much  as  the  Tommies.  We  are  officers 
but  we  are  also  men."  I  passed  the  word  to 
the  chaplain,  and  he  was  a  joyful  man  when 


The  Glamour  of  the  Front  47 

in  the  evening  he  gave  us  a  service  and  the 
offi'cers  of  the  next  ward  asked  the  orderlies 
to  carry  them  in. 

There  is  the  same  naturalness  and  spirit 
of  fellowship  between  members  of  various 
churches.  Many  lasting  friendships  have  been 
formed  between  chaplains  of  differing  com- 
munions. There  has  been  no  change  of  creed 
but  something  greater,  a  change  of  spirit. 
They  have  been  touched  by  the  common  spirit, 
and  have  lived  and  worked  in  free  and  happy 
fellowship.  On  my  last  Sunday  in  a  hospital 
in  France,  the  chaplain,  a  canon  of  the  Church 
of  England,  invited  me  to  read  the  lesson  at 
the  morning  parade  service,  and  to  administer 
the  wine  at  Holy  Communion.  This  I  did; 
and  a  colonel  who  was  present  stayed  behind 
to  express  to  us  both  the  pleasure  which  had 
been  given  to  him  by  the  sight  of  Anglican 
and  Methodist  churchmen  serving  together  at 
the  Lord's  Table. 

To  a  chaplain  not  a  little  of  the  glamour  of 
the  Front  is  found  in  this  warm  fellowship 
between  men  of  differing  creeds  and  varying 
religious  communions.  We  have  not  knocked 
down  our  garden  walls  but  we  have  taken  off 
the  cut  glass  that  had  been  cemented  on  them 
by  our  fathers;  and  now  we  can  lean  over  and 
talk  to  our  neighbors.    We  have  already  found 


48  The  Glamour  of  the  Front 

that  our  neighbors  are  human  beings,  and  quite 
normal.  The  chief  difference  between  us  seems 
to  be  that  while  one  has  an  obsession  for  roses 
the  other  has  an  obsession  for  dahlias.  On 
pansies,  sweet  peas  and  chrysanthemums  we 
seem  equally  keen  and  exchange  plants.  A 
Roman  Catholic  officer  who  had  been  appointed 
to  the  Ulster  Division  told  me  that  though  he 
was  received  coldly  at  first,  he  had  not  been 
with  the  Division  more  than  a  few  weeks  when 
every  officer  in  his  regiment,  and  every  soldier 
in  his  company,  accepted  him  as  cordially  as 
if  he  were  a  Protestant.  He  was  from -Dublin 
and  they  from  Belfast,  but  they  did  not  allow 
it  to  make  any  difference,  and  feelings  of  the 
warmest  loyalty  and  friendship  sprang  up. 
His  Tommies  would  fight  to  the  death  by  his 
side,  as  readily  as  around  any  Ulsterman;  and 
he  was  just  as  popular  in  the  officers'  mess. 
When,  he  said,  it  passed  the  Irish  Guards  or 
any  other  Roman  Catholic  regiment,  his  regi- 
ment would  sing  some  provoking  song  about 
"hanging  the  Pope  with  a  good  strong  rope," 
and  the  Dublin  regiment  would  reply  with  some 
song  equally  obnoxious  and  defiant;  but  whereas, 
In  peace  time,  the  songs  would  have  caused  a  free 
fight  to  the  accompaniment  of  bloodshed,  now 
it  caused  nothing  worse  than  laughter.  The 
songs  were  just  a  bit  of  teasing  such  as  every 


The  Glamour  of  the  Front  49 

regiment  likes  to  regale  another  with — per- 
haps, too,  a  common  memory  of  the  dear 
country  they  have  left  behind.  The  men  of 
Belfast  and  the  men  of  Dublin  have  learned 
to  respect  and  value  one  another.  They  know 
that  in  a  scrap  with  the  enemy  they  can  count 
on  one  another  to  the  last  drop  of  blood,  for, 
whether  from  North  or  South,  the  Irish  are 
"bonnie  fighters."  Of  such  are  the  miracles 
at  the  Front. 

Most  of  all,  perhaps,  the  glamour  of  the 
Front  is  found  in  the  nobility  to  which  com- 
mon men  rise.  An  artillery  officer  told  me 
that  he  had  in  his  battery  a  soldier  who  seem.ed 
utterly  worthless.  He  was  dirty  in  all  his 
ways,  and  unreliable  in  character.  In  despair 
they  made  him  sanitary  orderly,  that  is,  the 
scavenger  whose  duty  it  was  to  remove  all 
refuse.  One  night  the  officer  wanted  a  man 
to  go  on  a  perilous  errand  and  there  were  few 
men  available.  Instantly  this  lad  volunteered. 
The  officer  looked  at  him  In  amazement,  and 
with  a  reverence  born  on  the  instant.  "No," 
he  thought,  "I  will  not  let  him  go  and  get 
killed.  I'll  go  myself."  He  told  the  lad  so, 
and  disappointment  was  plainly  written  on  his 
features. 

"But,  you'll  let  me  come  with  you,  sir?"  he 
replied. 


50  The  Glamour  of  the  Front 

"Why  should  two  risk  their  lives,"  asked 
the  officer,   "when  one  can  do  the  job?" 

"But  you  might  get  wounded,  sir,"  was  the 
quick  response;  and  they  went  together. 

An  Irish  officer  told  me  of  one  man  who 
seemed  bad  from  top  to  toe.  All  the  others 
had  some  redeeming  feature  but  this  man  ap- 
peared not  to  possess  any.  He  used  the  filthiest 
language  and  was  dirty  in  his  habits  and  dress. 
He  was  drunken  and  stole  the  officers'  whisky 
out  of  the  mess.  He  was  unchaste  and  had 
been  in  the  hospital  with  venereal  disease; 
and  neither  as  man  nor  soldier  was  there  any- 
thing good  to  say  of  him.  The  regiment  was 
sent  to  France,  and  in  due  time  took  its  place 
in  the  trenches;  and  then  appeared  in  this  man 
something  that  had  never  risen  to  the  surface 
before.  Wherever  there  were  wounded  and 
dying  men  he  proved  himself  to  be  the  noblest 
man  in  the  regiment.  When  a  man  fell  in 
No  Man's  Land,  he  was  over  the  parapet  in 
the  twinkling  of  an  eye  to  bring  him  in.  No 
barrage  could  keep  him  away  from  the 
wounded.  It  was  a  sort  of  passion  with  him 
that  nothing  could  restrain.  To  save  others 
he  risked  his  life  scores  of  times.  In  rest- 
billets  he  would  revert  to  some  of  his  evil  ways, 
but  in  the  trenches  he  was  the  Greatheart  of 
the  regiment  and,  though  he  did  not  receive  it, 


The  Glamour  of  the  Front  51 

he  earned  the  Victoria  Cross  over  and  over 
again.  There  is  a  glamour  at  the  Front  that 
holds  the  heart  with  an  irresistible  grip.  In 
the  light  of  War's  deathly  fires  the  hearts  of 
men  are  revealed  and  the  black  sheep  often 
get  their  chance.  Life  is  intense  and  deep  and 
men  are  drawn  together  by  a  common  peril. 
They  find  the  things  that  unite  and  forget  the 
things  that  separate. 

"We  haven't  long  to  live,"  said  Captain  Ball 
joyfully,  "but  we  live  well  while  we  do  live," 
and  in  those  words  he  expressed  the  glamour 
of  the  Front.  Ball  found,  as  thousands  of  his 
comrades-in-arms  had  found,  that 

"One  crowded  hour  of  glorious  life 
Is  worth  an  age  without  a  name." 


IV 
A  WHITE  HANDKERCHIEF 

IN  his  History  of  the  Somme  Campaign 
John  Buchan  quotes,  from  an  official 
report,  an  incident  which,  though  I  have 
tried,  I  cannot  get  my  imagination  to  believe. 
Probably  the  incident  Is  a  true  one  but,  un- 
fortunately for  me,  my  mind  will  not  let  it  in. 
I  cannot  visualize  it  and  the  report  Is  turned 
from  the  door  as  an  impostor.  The  report 
states  that  in  a  certain  attack  our  aeroplanes 
fired  on  the  Germans  in  their  trenches  and  that 
the  enemy  waved  white  handkerchiefs  in  token 
of  surrender.  Without  the  slightest  difficulty 
I  can  imagine  all  except  the  white  handker- 
chiefs. Where  did  they  get  them  to  wave? 
Men  in  the  firing  trenches  don't  carry  anything 
so  conspicuous  as  white  handkerchiefs.  To 
draw  one  out  In  a  thoughtless  moment  might 
bring  a  sniper's  buflet,  and  there  are  risks 
enough  without  inviting  more.  I  doubt  if  in 
any  English  regiment  two  white  handkerchiefs 
could  be  found:  and  I  have  little  expectation 

52 


A  White  Handkerchief  53 

that  more  could  be  found  among  the  enemy. 
Furthermore,  it  is  questionable,  at  this  stage 
of  the  war,  if  a  white  handkerchief  would  be 
regarded  as  a  sign  of  surrender.  It  might  be 
taken  as  a  taunt. 

There  is  nothing  more  remarkable  in  the  war 
than  the  psychological  change  that  has  been 
wrought  In  white.  A  white  feather  used  to 
be  the  badge  of  cowardice  and  a  white  flag 
the  token  of  surrender.  It  is  not  so  now. 
White  has  taken  on  a  peculiar  sacredness.  If 
a  new  medal  were  to  be  struck  of  the  same 
high  value  as  the  Victoria  Cross  it  would 
probably  be  given  a  white  ribbon,  as  the  other 
has  a  red  or  (for  the  navy)  blue.  This 
change  in  the  moral  significance  of  white  was 
brought  home  to  me  by  an  incident  in  a  billet. 
I  had  gone  to  a  barn  to  give  the  men  some 
shirts  and  socks  that  had  been  sent  to  me.  I 
stood  on  the  steps,  and  like  an  auctioneer, 
offered  my  goods  for  acceptance.  "Who  wants 
a  shirt?  Who  a  scarf?  Who  wants  this  pair 
of  mittens?  Who  a  pair  of  socks?"  Hands 
shot  up  at  each  question,  and  the  fun  grew 
fast  and  furious.  Then  I  drew  out  and  held 
up  a  white  handkerchief.  "A-ah !  A-ah!"  they 
cried  wistfully  in  chorus.  For  a  moment 
they  stood  gazing  at  it  and  forgot  to  raise 
their   hands   towards   it;   then,    with   a   single 


54  A  White  Handkerchief 

movement,  every  hand  shot  up.  Unwittingly 
I  had  stirred  them  to  the  depths;  and  I  felt 
sorry  for  them. 

The  Magic  Carpet  of  Baghdad  is  not  a 
fiction  after  all.  In  the  twinkling  of  an  eye 
my  white  handkerchief  had  carried  every  boy 
and  man  to  his  home,  and  placed  him  by  the 
fireside.  I  saw  it  in  their  eyes  and  heard  it 
in  the  sadness  and  wistfulness  of  their  voices 
as  they  ejaculated  "A-ah!"  They  had  not 
seen  a  white  handkerchief  for  months.  The 
last  they  saw  was  at  home.  A  vision  of  home 
flashed  before  their  minds  and  they  were  back 
in  the  dear  old  days  of  peace  when  they  used 
white  handkerchiefs  and  khaki  ones  were  un- 
known to  them.  If  in  battle  they  were  to  see 
Germans  waving  white  handkerchiefs,  I  think 
it  would  make  them  savage  and  unwilling  to 
r;ive  quarter.  They  would  think  the  enemy 
was  taunting  them  with  all  they  had  lost.  And 
they  would  be  maddened  by  the  thought  that 
here  were  the  very  men  who,  by  their  war-lust, 
had  caused  them  to  lose  it.  For  a  German  to 
wave  a  white  handkerchief  before  a  British 
soldier  would  be  as  dangerous  as  flaunting  a 
red  flag  before  a  bull.  It  would  bring  death 
rather  than  pity.  Anything  of  pure  white  is 
rare  at  the  front,  and  it  has  gradually  taken 
on  a  meaning  it  never  held  before.     About  the 


A  White  Handkerchief  55 

only  white  thing  we  have  is  the  paper  we  write 
home  on,  and  that  use  of  the  color  helps  to 
sanctify  it  in  the  shrine  of  the  heart. 

In  the  army  it  is  a  term  of  supreme  praise 
to  call  a  man  white.  When  you  say  a  comrade 
is  a  "white  man"  there  is  no  more  to  be  said. 
It  is  worth  more  than  the  Victoria  Cross  with 
its  red  ribbon,  for  it  includes  gallantry,  and 
adds  to  it  goodness.  A  man  must  be  brave  to 
be  called  white  and  he  must  be  generous,  noble 
and  good.  To  reach  whiteness  is  a  great 
achievement.  To  be  dubbed  white  is,  in  the 
army,  like  being  dubbed  knight  at  King  Arthur's 
Court  or  canonized  saint  in  the  Church.  He 
stands  out  among  a  soldier's  comrades  dis- 
tinct as  a  white  handkerchief  among  khaki 
ones. 

I  don't  know  where  the  term  came  from, 
but,  wherever  it  may  have  tarried  on  the  way, 
I  think  its  footprints  could  be  traced  back  to 
the  Book  of  Revelation  for  its  starting  place. 
In  the  first  chapter  we  have  a  picture  of  Christ 
as  the  first  "White  Man"— "His  Head  and 
His  Hairs  were  white  like  wool,  as  white  as 
snow."  In  the  second  chapter  His  faithful 
followers  are  given  "a  white  stone,  and  in 
the  stone  a  new  name  written."  Is  not  the 
new  name  "White  man"?  In  the  third  chapter 
we  read  of  "a  few  names  even  in  Sardis  which 


56  A  White  Handkerchief 

have  Pot  defiled  their  garments;  and  they  shall 
•walk  with  Me  in  ii)hite;  for  they  are  worthy." 
There,  too,  the  Laodiceans  are  counseled  to 
buy  "white  raiment."  In  the  fourth  chapter 
we  see  the  four  and  twenty  elders,  sitting 
around  the  throne  under  the  rainbow  arch, 
"clothed  in  white  raiment."  In  the  sixth 
chapter  we  have  the  crowned  King  going 
"forth  conquering,  and  to  conquer"  and  He  is 
sitting  on  "a  white  horse,"  that  is,  He  uses 
"white"  instruments  to  carry  out  His  con- 
quests. Death,  in  the  same  chapter,  rides  on 
a  "pale"  horse,  but  not  a  "white"  one.  Under 
the  altar  were  the  souls  of  the  martyrs,  "And 
white  robes  were  given  unto  every  one  of 
them."  And  surely  the  climax  is  reached  when 
we  read  In  the  seventh  chapter  that  "  a  great 
multitude,  which  no  man  could  number,  of  all 
nations,  and  kindreds,  and  people  and  tongues, 
stood  before  the  throne,  and  before  the  Lamb, 
clothed  with  white  robes."  So  striking  was 
the  scene  that  one  of  the  elders  asked,  "What 
are  these  which  are  arrayed  In  white  robes? 
and  whence  came  they?"  And  the  answer  is 
given,  "These  are  they  which  came  out  of 
great  tribulation,  and  have  washed  their  robes, 
and  made  them  white  in  the  blood  of  the  Lamb. 
Therefore  are  they  before  the  throne  of  God." 
In   the   army  white   has  come   back  to   its 


A  White  Handkerchief  57 

ancient  significance.  The  brave  and  noble 
martyrs  of  the  early  Church  were  given  "white 
robes"  and  in  the  army  to-day  the  brave  and 
pure  wear  "white  robes"  in  the  eyes  of  their 
comrades.  When  Clifford  Reed  was  killed  by 
a  shell  at  his  Regimental  Aid  Post  his  colonel 
wrote  of  him  that  he  was  the  "whitest  man" 
he  had  ever  known.  He  had  done  more  than 
wear  "the  white  flower  of  a  blameless  life." 
His  virtues  were  positive,  not  merely  negative. 
He  wore  a  "white  robe" ;  not  a  mere  speck  of 
white  such  as  a  white  flower  In  a  buttonhole 
would  appear.  White  Is  a  positive  color,  not 
a  negative.  Reed  was  more  than  "blameless," 
he  was  "white  and  all  white."  To  our  soldiers 
a  white  handkerchief  speaks  of  home,  and  a 
"white  man"  speaks  of  honor  and  heroism 
and  heaven. 


THE  SONGS  OUR  SOLDIERS  SING 

THE  necessity  for  poetry  and  song  is  fully 
and  officially  recognized  by  the  military 
authorities  at  the  Front.  Every  Divi- 
sion has  its  own  concert  party.  These  men  are 
chosen  out  of  the  ranks  because  they  can  sing, 
and  their  one  task  is  to  furnish  nightly  concerts 
for  the  men.  They  are  provided  with  a  good 
hall,  or  tent,  or  open-air  position;  and  they  are 
given  enough  money  to  buy  stage  scenery  and 
appropriate  dress.  Everybody  attends  the  con- 
certs from  the  general  to  the  private;  and 
while  the  entertainments  last,  the  war  is  for- 
gotten. A  charge  is  made  at  the  door  but  the 
balance  sheet  is  published  for  all  ranks  to  see; 
and  the  profits  are  distributed  among  the  Divi- 
sional charities. 

Among  the  many  Divisional  Concert  Parties 
may  be  named  "The  Bow  Bells,"  "The  Duds," 
"The  Follies,"  "The  Whizz-bangs,"  "The 
Fancies"  and,  "The  Giddigoats."  But,  after 
all,  the  singing  in  the  concert  rooms  is  but  a 


The  Songs  Our  Soldiers  Sing         59 

small  fraction  of  the  singing  one  hears  in  the 
Army.  On  every  march,  in  every  billet  and 
mess,  there  is  the  sound  of  singing.  Nor  must 
the  singing  at  our  religious  services  and  in  the 
Y.  M.  C.  A.  huts  be  forgotten.  Song  seems 
to  be  the  great  renewer  of  hope  and  courage. 
It  is  the  joy  bringer.  Moreover,  it  is  an  ex- 
pression of  emotions  that  can  find  no  other 
voice. 

There  is  no  real  difference  between  the  songs 
sung  by  the  officers  and  those  sung  by  the  men. 
All  attend  the  concerts  and  all  sing  on  the 
march.  The  same  songs  do  for  both  com- 
manders and  commanded,  and  I  have  heard 
the  same  songs  in  the  men's  billets  as  in  the 
officers'  mess-rooms.  How  real  these  songs  are 
to  the  soldiers  is  indicated  by  one  striking  omis- 
sion. There  are  no  patriotic  songs  at  the 
Front.  Except  the  National  Anthem  rendered 
on  formal  occasions,  I  have  never,  in  eighteen 
months,  heard  a  single  patriotic  song.  The 
reason  is  not  far  to  seek.  The  soldiers' 
patriotism  calls  for  no  expression  in  song. 
They  are  expressing  it  night  and  day  In  the 
endurance  of  hardship  and  wounds — in  the 
risking  of  their  lives.  Their  hearts  are  satis- 
fied with  their  deeds,  and  songs  of  such  a  char- 
acter become  superfluous.  In  peace-time  they 
sing  their  love  of  the  homeland,  but  In  war- 


60  The  Songs  Our  Soldiers  Sing 

time  they  suffer  for  her  and  are  content.  They 
would  never  think  of  singing  a  patriotic  song 
as  they  march  into  battle.  It  would  be  painting 
the  lily  and  gilding  refined  gold.  Are  not  their 
deathless  deeds,  songs  for  which  they  make  a 
foil  by  singing  some  inconsequential  and  evan- 
escent song  such  as,  "There's  something  in  the 
sea-side  air." 

On  analysis  I  should  say  that  there  are  five 
subjects  on  which  our  soldiers  sing.  First,  there 
are  Nonsense  Songs  or,  if  you  prefer  it,  songs 
of  soldier-philosophy.  They  know  that  no 
theory  will  explain  the  war;  it  is  too  big  a  thing 
for  any  sheet  of  philosophy  to  cover.  It  has 
burst  in  on  our  little  hum-drum  life  like  a  col- 
liding planet.  The  thing  to  do  is  not  to  evolve 
a  theory  as  to  how  the  planet  got  astray  but 
to  clear  up  the  mess  it  has  made.  Our  soldiers 
show  this  sense  of  the  vastness  of  war-happen- 
ings, by  singing  of  things  having  no  real  im- 
portance at  all,  and  keeping  steadily  at  their 
duties.  The  path  of  duty  is,  they  find,  the  only 
path  of  sanity.  The  would-be  war  philosopher 
they  put  on  one  side.  The  war  is  too  big  for 
him.  Let  him  leave  his  explanation  of  the  war 
and  lend  a  hand  to  bring  it  to  an  end.  So  they 
sing,  with  laughing  irony, 

"We're  here  because  we're  here,  because  % 
We're  here,  because  we're  here." 


The  Songs  Our  Soldiers  Sing         61 
Or, 

"While  you've  got  a   lucifer  to  light  your  fag, 
Smile,  boys,  that's  the  style. 
What's  the  use  of  worrying? 
It  never  was  worth  while, 
So  pack  up  your  troubles  in  your  old  kit-bag 
And  smile,  smile,  smile." 

Another  favorite  is, 

"Oh,  there  was  a  little  hen  and  she  had  a  wooden  leg, 
The  best  little  hen  that  ever  laid  an  egg. 
And  she  laid  more  eggs  than  any  hen  on  the  farm. 
And  another  little  drink  wouldn't  do  us  any  harm." 

I  have  seen  them  dancing  round  some  old  piano 
singing, 

"Oh,  that  fascinating  Bow  Bells'  glide, 
It's  a  captivating  Bow  Bells'  slide. 
There's  a  rumor  that  the  puma  does  it  now, 
Monkeys  have  taken  to  it, 
Leopards  and  lions  do  it. 
All  the  elephants  wear  dancing  shoes. 
They  keep  hopping  with  the  kangaroos; 
Hear  them  chatter,  it's  a  matter  for  some  talk; 
Now  the  Jungle's  got  the  Bow  Bells'  walk." 

The  second  class  of  song  Is  the  Love  Song, 
of  a  more  or  less  serious  character.  The  Tom- 
mies came  out  of  England  singing  "TIpperary," 
but  they  dropped  it  in  France,  and  the  only  one 
on  whose  lips  I  have  heard  it  was  a  little  French 


62         The  Songs  Our  Soldiers  Sing 

boy  sitting  on  the  tail  of  a  cart.  The  chorus 
alone  gave  it  popularity  for  it  was  the  expres- 
sion, ready  to  hand,  of  a  long  farewell;  and 
with  its  "long  long  way  to  go"  showed  that, 
like  Kitchener,  the  soldiers  were  not  deceived 
by  hopes  of  an  early  peace. 

Now  another  song  with  verses  more  expres- 
sive of  their  sentiments  has  taken  its  place. 
The  chorus  runs: 

"There's  a  long,  long  trail  a-winding 

Into  the   land  of  my  dreams, 
Where  the  nightingales  are  singing 

And  a  white  moon  beams; 
There's  a   long,   long  night  of  waiting 

Until  my  dreams  all  come  true; 
Till  the  day  when  I'll  be  going  down 

That  long,   long  trail   with  you." 

Then  the  mood  changes,  and  we  hear  the  lads 
piping  out, 

"Taffy's  got  his  Jennie  in  Glamorgan, 

Sandy's  got  his  Maggie  in  Dundee, 
While  Michael  O'Leary  thinks  of  his  dearie 

Far  across  the  Irish  Sea. 
Billy's  got  his  Lily  up  in  London, 

So  the  boys  march  on  with  smiles; 
For  every  Tommy's  got  a  girl  somewhere 

In   the   dear   old   British   Isles." 

Again  the  mood  veers  round,  and  we  hear, 


The  Songs  Our  Soldiers  Sing  63 

"Every  little  while  I  feel  so  lonely, 

Every  little  while  I  feel  so  blue, 
I'm  always  dreaming,  I'm  always  scheming, 

Because  I  want  you,  and  only  you. 
Every  little  while  my  heart  is  aching, 

Every  little  while  I  miss  your  smile, 
And  all  the  time  I  seem  to  miss  you; 
I  want  to,  want  to  kiss  you. 

Every,  every,   every  little  while." 

Here  is  part  of  a  song  I  have  heard  sung, 
many  and  many  a  time,  by  young  officers  and 
men  whose  voices  are  now  silent  in  death: 

"If  you  were  the  only  girl   in  the  world. 
And  I  were  the  only  boy, 

Nothing  else  would  matter  in  the  world  to-day, 
We  could  go  on  loving  in  the  same  old  way; 
A  Garden  of  Eden  just  made  for  two, 
With  nothing  to  mar  our  joy; 
I  would  say  such  wonderful  things  to  you. 
There  would  be  such  wonderful  things  to  do, 
If  you  were  the  only  girl  in  the  world. 
And  I  were  the  only  boy." 

Sometimes  the  imagination  will  wander  into 
the  days  that  are  to  be — for  some — and  they 
sing, 

"We  don't  want  a  lot  of  flags  flying. 

We  don't  want  your  big  brass  bands; 
We  don't  want  a  lot  of  speechifying, 

And  we  don't  want  a  lot  of  waving  hands; 
We  don't  want  a  lot  of  interfering, 

When  we've  safely  crossed  the  foam; 
But  we  do  want  to  find  the  girls  we  left  behind, 

When  we  all  come  marching  home." 


64  The  Sonf^s  Our  Soldiers  Sing 


& 


Will  the  girls  remember!  The  words  are 
not  without  tragedy.  How  deeply  "some  of  the 
men  love  may  perhaps  never  be  realized  by 
those  at  home.  The  longing  of  their  hearts  is, 
at  times,  almost  unbearable.  A  captain,  past 
middle  life,  took  my  arm  one  day  and  led  me 
asifle.  He  was,  he  said,  a  little  anxious  about 
himself,  for  he  was  getting  into  the  habit  of 
taking  more  drink  than  he  was  wont  to  take. 
He  had  been  taking  it  when  he  felt  lonely  and 
depressed  to  ease  the  longing  of  his  heart. 

"I  never  touch  it  at  home,"  he  said,  "the 
society  of  my  dear  little  wife  is  all  the  stimulant 
I  need.  I  would  give  the  world  to  be  with 
her  now — just  to  sit  in  my  chair  and  watch  her 
at  her  sewing  or  knitting.  The  separation  is 
too  much  for  me  and,  you  know,  it  has  lasted 
nearly  three  years  now." 

I  have  caught  this  yearning  in  more  than  one 
of  the  songs  our  soldiers  sing,  but  especially  in 
the  following,  which  is  called  "Absent": 

"Sometimes,  between  long  shadows  on  the  grass, 
The   little   truant   wares   of   sunlight  pass; 
My  eyes  grow  dim  with  tenderness,  the  while 
Thinking  I  see  thee,  thinking  I  see  thee  smile. 

"And  sometimes  in  the  twilight  gloom,   apart, 
The  tall  trees  whisper,  whisper  heart  to  heart; 
From  my  fond  lips  the  eager  answers  fall, 
Thinking  I  hear  thee,  thinking  I  hear  thee  call." 


The  Songs  Our  Soldiers  Sing  65 

The  men's  thoughts  pass  easily  from  the 
sweetheart  to  the  mother  who  bore  them,  and 
we  have  a  third  class,  the  Home  Song.  I 
have  been  awakened  in  the  night  by  men,  going 
up  to  the  line,  singing  "Keep  the  Home  Fires 
Burning."  It  is  very  thrilling  to  hear  in  the 
dead  of  night,  when  every  singer  is  within  range 
of  the  enemy's  guns. 

Another  great  favorite  is, 

"They  built  a  little  garden  for  the  rose, 

And  they  called  it  Dixie-land; 
They  built  a  summer  breeze  to  keep  the  snows 

Far  away  from  Dixie-land; 
They  built  the  finest  place  I've  known, 

When  they  built  my  home  sweet  home; 
Nothing  was  forgotten  in  the  land  of  cotton, 

From  the  clover  to  the  honey-comb, 
And  then  they  took  an  angel  from  the  skies 

And  they  gave  her  heart  to  me. 
She  had  a  bit  of  heaven  in  her  eyes 

Just  as  blue  as  blue  can  be; 
They  put  some  fine  spring  chickens  in  the  land, 

And  taught  my  Mammy  how  to  use  a  frying  pan. 
They  made  it  twice  as  nice  as  paradise. 

And  they  called  it  Dixie-land." 

Being  Londoners,  the  following  song  called 
"Leave"  never  fails  in  its  appeal  to  our  Divi- 
sion: 

"I'm  so  delighted,  I'm  so  excited. 
With  my  folks  I'm  going  to  be  united. 


66  The  Songs  Our  Soldiers  Sing 

The  train's  departing,  'twill  soon  be  starting; 

I'll  see  my  mother,  my  dad  and  my  baby  brother. 

My!  How  I'll  meet  them,  My!  how  I'll  greet  them. 

What  a  happy  happy  day. 

Just  see  that  bustle,  I'd  better  hustle, 

Good-bye — so  long — can't  stay — 


Chorus 

"I'm  on  my  way  back  to  dear  old  Shepherd's  Bush, 
That's  the  spot  where  I  was  born, 
Can't  you  hear  the  porter  calling, 

Queen's  Road,  Piccadilly,  Marble  Arch  and  Bond  Street? 
Oh,  I'll  not  hesitate,  I'll  reach  the  gate; 
Through  the  crowd  I  mean  to  push. 
Find  me  a  seat  anywhere — please  anywhere. 
Tram,   train,  tube,   'bus   I   don't  care — 
For  mother  and  daddy  are  waiting  there — 
In  dear  old  Shepherd's  Bush." 

On  the  eve  of  one  big  battle,  a  soldier 
handed  me  a  letter  in  which  he  gave  me  the 
addresses  of  his  father  and  his  sweetheart,  so 
that  I  could  write  to  them  if  he  fell. 

"In  the  last  battle,"  he  said,  "one  of  my 
brothers  was  killed  and  another  wounded.  If  I 
fall  I  shall  die  without  regrets  and  with  a  heart 
content;  but  it  will  go  hard  with  those  at  home; 
and  I  want  you  to  break  the  news  gently. 
These  are  terrible  times  for  those  at  home." 
"These  are  terrible  times  for  those  at  home." 
That  is  their  constant  refrain,  and  it  finds  an 
echo  in  a  song  often  sung  by  them. 


The  Songs  Our  Soldiers  Sing  67 

"It's  a  long  long  way  to  my  home  in  Kentucky, 

Where  the  blue-bells  grow  'round  the  old  cabin  door; 
It's  a  long,  long  way  and  I'll  be  mighty  lucky 

When  I  see  my  dear  old  mammy  once  more. 
So  weep  no  more,  my  lady, 

Just  brush  those  tears  away; 
It's  a  long  long  way  to  my  home  in  Kentucky, 

But  I'm  bound  to  get  there  some  day." 

But  the  chief  favorite  of  all  Home  Songs  is^ 
I  think,  the  following: 

"There's  an  old-fashioned  house  in  an  old-fashioned  street; 

In  a  quaint  little  old-fashioned  town; 
There's  a   street  where  the  cobble  stones  harass  the  feet, 

As  it  straggles  up  hill  and  then  down; 
And,  though  to  and  fro  through  the  world  I  must  go, 

My  heart  while  it  beats  in  my  breast, 
Where  e'er  I  may  roam,  to  that  old-fashioned  home 

Will  fly  like  a  bird  to  its  nest. 

"In  that  old-fashioned   house  in  that  old-fashioned  street. 

Dwell  a  dear  little  old-fashioned  pair; 
I  can  see  their  two  faces  so  tender  and  sweet. 

And  I  love  every  wrinkle  that's  there. 
I  love  ev'ry  mouse  in  that  old-fashioned  house 

In  the  street  that  runs  up  hill  and  down; 
Each  stone  and  each  stick,  ev'ry  cobble  and  brick. 

In  that  quaint  little   old-fashioned  town." 

The  charm  of  the  Army  is  its  comradeship. 
Our  soldiers  have  left  their  homes  and  friends 
but  they  have  found  new  friends,  and  some  of 
the  friendships  have  become  very  precious. 
Men   slept   side  by   side   in   barn   and   trench. 


68  The  Songs  Our  Soldiers  Sing 

cooked  their  rations  at  the  same  Httle  wood  fire, 
and  stood  together  in  the  hour  of  danger  and 
imminent  death.  Many  of  them  owe  their  lives 
to  their  comrades.  There  are  few  songs  that 
express  this  wonderful  comradeship,  but  there 
is  one  that  is  known  and  sung  through  the 
army.  It  represents  the  Songs  of  Comrade- 
ship: 

"When  you  come  to  the  end  of  a  perfect  day, 

And  you  sit  alone  with  your  thought, 
While  the  chimes  ring  out  with  a  carol  gay, 

For  the  joy  that  the  day  has  brought; 
Do  you  think  what  the  end  of  a  perfect  day 

Can  mean  to  a  tired  heart, 
When  the  sun  goes  down  with  a  flaming  ray, 

And  the  dear  friends  have  to  part? 

"Well,  this  is  the  end  of  a  perfect  day, 

Near  the  end  of  a  journey  too; 
But  it  leaves  a  thought  that  is  big  and  strong, 

With  a  wish  that  is  kind  and  true. 
For  mem'ry  has  painted  this  perfect  day 

With  colors  that  never  fade; 
And  we  find  at  the  end  of  a  perfect  day 

The  soul  of  a  friend  ive'<ve  made." 

The  fifth  class  of  song  is  that  of  the  inner 
life.  It  is  the  Religious  Hymn.  The  soldiers 
are  extremely  fond  of  hymns  in  their  services. 
You  cannot  give  them  too  many.  "Rock  of 
Ages,"  "Jesus  lover  of  my  soul,"  "Fight  the 
good  fight,"  "There  is  a  green  hill,"  "At  even 


The  Songs  Our  Soldiers  Sing  69 

ere  the  sun  was  set,"  "O  God  our  help  in  ages 
past,"  and  "Eternal  Father  strong  to  save" 
cannot  be  chosen  too  often.  But  there  are  two 
hymns  which  have  stood  out  above  all  others; 
they  are  "Abide  with  me,"  and  "When  I  sur- 
vey the  wondrous  Cross." 

There  is  nothing  written  by  the  hand  of  man 
which  can  compete  with  these  two  in  the  bless- 
ing and  strength  which  they  have  brought  to  our 
soldiers,  especially  during  an  offensive  when 
death  has  cast  his  shadow  over  the  hearts  of 
all.  During  the  bitterest  weeks  in  the  Somme 
fighting  there  was  scarcely  a  service  in  which 
we  did  not  sing  "When  I  survey  the  wondrous 
Cross."  With  its  assurance  of  redemption  it 
gave  comfort  in  the  face  of  death.  It  also 
gave,  for  an  example,  the  Supreme  Sacrifice. 

Some  of  the  songs  I  have  quoted  look  bare 
and  ungainly  as  trees  in  winter,  but  when  the 
musician  has  clothed  them  with  music  and  the 
singer  added  to  them  a  touch  of  his  own  per- 
sonality they  are  fair  as  trees  in  summer.  Still 
the  fact  remains  that  none  of  these  songs  will 
live  on  their  own  merits.  They  are  not  born 
to  immortality.  Like  the  daisies  they  have 
their  day  and  pass  away  to  make  room  for 
others.  It  Is  best  so.  There  is  not  room  in 
the  world  for  everything  to  be  immortal,  and 
the  transient  has   a  work  of  Its   own   to   do. 


70  The  Songs  Our  Soldiers  Sing 

The  charm  and  rare  beauty  of  the  English 
countryside  are  due  to  the  transience  of  its 
flowers  and  foliage  and  little  of  the  evergreen 
is  enough.  We  tire  of  the  eternal.  The 
transient  songs  I  have  quoted  here  have  been 
meat  and  drink  to  our  soldiers  in  the  most  ter- 
rible war  ever  waged.  They  may  be  poor  stuff 
In  comparison  with  our  classic  songs  but  a  good 
appetite  can  get  nourishment  out  of  plain  food 
and  grow  strong  on  it.  For  the  purpose  in 
hand  these  songs  have  been  better  than  the 
classics;  otherwise  they  would  not  have  been 
chosen.  There  is  a  time  and  place  for  all 
things.  The  robin  may  not  be  compared  with 
the  nightingale  but  It  is  not  the  less  welcome, 
for  it  sings  when  the  nightingale  Is  silent.  Our 
soldiers'  songs  will  die,  some  are  already  dead, 
but  they  have  done  their  Avork  and  justified 
their  existence.  They  have  given  pleasure  and 
strength  to  men  as  they  went  out  to  do  Im- 
mortal deeds.  No  wounded  soldier,  or  parched 
traveler,  thinks  lightly  of  a  cup  of  water  be- 
cause It  perished  In  the  using;  and  so  it  Is  with 
the  songs  our  soldiers  sing. 


m 

EASTER  SUNDAY 

NIGHT  and  day  for  a  week,  the  fearful 
bombardment  continued.  Our  guns 
were  everywhere,  and  belching  forth 
without  intermission.  Dumps  of  shells  were 
almost  as  common  as  sheaves  in  a  corn-field, 
and  processions  of  ammunition-wagons  piled 
the  shells  up  faster  than  the  gorging  guns 
could  take  them.  The  noise  was  something  be- 
yond imagination.  It  was  as  though  all  the 
devils  in  hell  had  come  out  to  demoniacally 
celebrate  the  end  of  the  world.  We  were  living 
— two  transport  officers  and  I — in  an  empty 
farm-house  that,  some  time  before  we  came  i:?, 
had  been  a  target  for  direct  hits.  One  shell 
had  gone  through  the  roof,  and  another 
through  the  gable  wall.  The  windows  had 
been  shattered,  and  the  garden  and  fields  were 
pitted  with  shell-holes.  Our  first  care  had  been 
to  look  at  the  cellar,  but  we  had  decided,  if 
things  became  too  hot,  to  make  for  the  open 
fields.     We  all  slept  in  the  same  room,   and 

71 


72  Easter  Sunday 

were  at  times  wakened  up  by  "an  arrival"  and 
passed  an  opinion  as  to  its  distance.  If,  for 
a  time,  none  came  nearer,  we  turned  over  and 
went  to  sleep  again,  for  a  man  must  sleep  even 
though  it  be  on  the  edge  of  a  volcano. 

One  morning  the  servants  found  a  shell  nose- 
cap  beneath  the  window — just  that,  and  noth- 
ing more.  The  week  was  wearing  on.  An- 
other morning  some  of  the  7th  Middlesex 
Regiment  were  in  the  baths  in  the  village  over 
the  way,  and  a  company  of  the  London  Scot- 
tish was  passing  by.  Two  shells  fell  In  the 
road.  The  bathers  scampered  out  of  the  bath 
and  ran  naked,  here  and  there,  for  shelter; 
the  Scottish  "scattered";  but  some  forty-five 
soldiers,  mostly  kilted,  lay  in  the  road  dead 
or  wounded.  In  the  dead  of  night  a  party  of 
machine  gunners,  just  returned  from  the  firing- 
trench,  stood  outside  their  billet  in  our  village 
square  debating  if  they  should  make  a  cup  of 
tea  before  turning  in  to  sleep.  A  shell  de- 
cided the  matter,  and,  next  morning,  I  laid 
two  of  them  to  rest  in  the  little  cemetery,  and 
the  others  stood  by  as  mourners. 

The  week  of  terror  reached  Its  crisis  on  the 
Sunday — an  Easter  Sunday  never  to  be  for- 
gotten. The  infantry  of  the  Brigade  had  been 
away  to  a  camp,  beyond  range,  for  a  week's 
rest.     They  had  now  returned  ready  for  the 


Easter  Sunday  73 

battle.  Three  of  the  regiments  had  taken  up 
their  positions  in  the  reserve  trenches,  but  my 
own  regiment  was  quartered  in  the  fatal  vil- 
lage. The  day  dawned  bright  and  fair,  but 
its  smiles  were  the  smiles  of  a  deceiver.  The 
Germans  had  decided  on  the  destruction  of  the 
village,  a  sort  of  devil's  "hail-and-farewell" 
before  being  driven  back  at  the  points  of 
bayonets.  We  were  awakened  by  the  firing  of 
machine-guns  over  our  heads,  and  rushed  to  the 
door  to  see  a  fight  in  the  air.  High  up  in  the 
blue,  two  aeroplanes  circled  about  for  posi- 
tions of  vantage,  and  then  rushed  at  one  another 
like  hawks  in  mortal  combat.  A  silence  fol- 
lowed. Then  one  rose  and  made  off  towards 
the  battle-line  but  fell  to  a  shot  of  our  gun- 
ners before  it  could  reach  safety.  The  other, 
with  its  petrol-tank  on  fire,  was  planing  down 
to  earth.  Down  and  down  an  invisible  spiral 
staircase  it  seemed  to  rush,  while  the  golden 
fire  burnt  at  its  vitals,  and  a  trailing  cloud 
of  smoke  marked  its  path  of  doom.  Breath- 
lessly we  watched  its  descent.  It  was  under 
perfect  control,  but  its  path  to  the  ground  was 
too  long  and  spiral,  and  the  faster  it  rushed 
through  the  air  the  greater  the  draught  be- 
came and  the  more  madly  the  flames  leapt  up. 
Every  second  was  precious  and  the  certainty 
of  its  doom  made  us  sick.     We  saw  the  body 


74  Easter  Sunday 

of  the  observer  fall  out,  and  still  the  flaming 
machine  pursued  its  course.  Then  the  wings 
fell  away  and  twirled  to  the  ground  like 
feathers,  while  the  engine  and  the  pilot  dropped 
like  a  stone.  When  the  bodies  were  picked 
up,  it  was  found  that  the  observer  had  been 
shot  through  the  head,  and  that  the  pilot,  with 
his  dead  comrade  behind  him,  had  worked  the 
wheel  until  the  furious  encroaching  flame  had 
swept  over  him,  and  robbed  him  of  mortal 
life. 

Shells  were  now  dropping  in  the  village 
every  few  minutes.  Our  farm-house  was  on  the 
right  wing,  and  we  stood  watching  the  bom- 
bardment. With  each  burst  there  rose  a  cloud 
of  black  smoke  and  red  brick-dust,  and  we 
knew  that  another  cottage  has  been  destroyed. 
Then  the  shells  began  to  creep  round  to  the 
right  as  if  the  enemy  was  feeling  for  the 
bridge  over  which  the  ammunition  wagons 
were  passing.  On  one  side  of  the  little  bridge 
was  a  white  bell-tent,  and  we  watched  the 
shells  dropping  within  a  few  feet  of  It  with- 
out destroying  It.  Between  the  tent  and  our 
street  lay  a  stagnant  pool,  and  we  saw  about 
a  dozen  shells  fall  In  its  water.  The  range 
was  lengthening  and  It  seemed  as  If  some  In- 
visible octopus  were  stretching  out  Its  feelers 
towards    us.      A    shell    smashed    against    the 


Easter  Sunday  75 

farm-house  at  the  bottom  of  our  street.  The 
deadly  thing  was  coming  nearer.  Some  of  our 
sergeants  were  in  a  farm-house  a  few  doors 
away,  and,  hearing  a  shell  fall  in  the  field 
between  them  and  the  pool,  they  came  to  the 
decision  that  the  moment  had  come  "to  scat- 
ter," but  they  were  too  late.  It  would  have 
been  better  had  they  stayed  indoors.  As  they 
rushed  out  a  shell  burst  over  the  yard  three 
of  them  fell  to  the  ground  dead,  and  three 
more  were  blown  back  into  the  house  by  the 
force  of  the  explosion.  The  coping  stone  of 
the  outhouse  where  the  shell  burst  was  blown 
away  and  three  ragged  seams  were  scored  on 
the  green  doorway  of  the  yard  outside  which 
the  three  lads  lay  dead.  One  of  them  had, 
ten  days  before,  shown  me  to  my  billet  thirty 
yards  farther  up.  He  acted  as  interpreter  to 
the  regiment  and  as  he  had  not  to  go  into  the 
line,  we  thought  that  he  was  one  of  those  who 
would  see  the  end  of  the  war.  Yet  there  he 
lay. 

But  the  worst  calamity  of  the  day  was  yet 
to  befall.  Some  fifteen  or  sixteen  ammunition 
wagons,  unable  to  get  through  the  village,  had 
halted  in  the  Square — "Wipers  Square"  it  had 
been  named.  Each  wagon  was  loaded  with 
nine-point-two  shells.  An  enemy-shot  fell  on  a 
wagon  and  set  it  on  fire;  then  the  village  be- 


76  Easter  Sunday 

came  like  unto  Sodom  and  Gomorrah  on  their 
day  of  doom.  One  or  two  drivers  bravely 
stuck  to  their  wagons,  and  got  them  out  but 
the  rest  of  the  wagons  were  lost.  The  scene 
that  followed  was  indescribable.  Dore  could 
never  have  pictured  such  horrors.  The  wagons 
all  caught  fire  and  their  loads  of  shells  began 
to  explode.  We  stood  out  in  the  fields  and 
watched  the  conflagration,  while  all  the  time 
the  Germans  continued  to  shell  the  village. 
The  large  village-hall  and  the  houses  on  each 
side  of  the  square  were  utterly  destroyed. 
Great  explosions  sent  fragments  of  wagons  and 
houses  sky-high,  and  showers  of  missiles  fell 
even  where  we  stood.  The  fore  part  of  one 
wagon  was  blown  on  to  the  roof  of  a  house. 
Houses  caught  fire  and  blazed  all  afternoon. 
Some  machine-gunners  joined  us  and  told  how, 
when  choking  smoke  began  to  penetrate  into 
their  cellar  they  had  to  rush  through  the  square 
and  its  bursting  shells  to  preserve  their  lives. 
A  German  shell  burst  in  a  billet  where  a  platoon 
of  our  men  were  sheltering  in  the  cellar,  and 
those  who  were  not  killed  by  the  shell  were 
crushed  to  death  by  the  fall  of  the  house. 
Another  shell  hit  the  roof  of  the  house  in  the 
cellar  of  which  was  our  Advanced  Dressing 
Station  for  the  morrow's  battle.  Two  order- 
lies who  happened  to   be   in  the  street  were 


Easter  Sunday  77 

killed,  and  the  colonel  was  knocked  down.  In 
the  cellars  of  almost  every  house  were  soldiers 
or  civilians,  and  all  day  the  ammunition  wagons 
continued  burning;  shell  after  shell  getting  red 
hot  and  exploding. 

All  day  the  German  bombardment  continued 
and,  amid  a  terrific  din,  our  own  gunners  re- 
turned a  score  or  more  for  every  one  received. 
By  the  bridge  another  long  line  of  loaded  am- 
munition wagons  stood  for  two  hours,  and 
though  shells  were  bursting  close  by,  not  one 
hit  the  wagons.  The  drivers  stood  by  them 
and,  as  soon  as  the  road  was  cleared,  got  them 
away  to  the  guns.  Yet,  while  the  Square  was 
burning  and  the  German  shells  falling,  hun- 
dreds of  men  from  the  London  regiments  en- 
tered the  village  from  the  right,  and  crossed 
the  bridge  to  stack  their  packs  so  as  to  be 
ready  for  the  coming  battle.  They  walked  in 
single  file  and  with  wide  gaps  between,  but  not 
a  man  ran  or  quickened  his  pace.  My  blood 
tingled  with  pride  at  their  courage  and  anger 
at  their  carelessness.  What  would  make  a 
British  soldier  run?  An  officer  was  walking 
near  the  pool.  A  shell  fell  near  enough  for 
fragments  to  kill  him,  but  he  merely  looked 
round,  stopped  to  light  a  cigarette  and  walked 
leisurely  on  as  if  nothing  had  happened. 
Three  men  stood  with  their  backs  against  a 


78  Easter  Sunday 

small  building  near  the  bridge  as  if  sheltering 
from  the  rain.  Several  shells  fell  uncom- 
fortably near,  so,  concluding  that  the  rain  had 
changed  its  direction,  they  moved  round  the 
corner.  And  it  was  not  till  more  shells  had 
fallen  near  them  that  they  condescended  to 
move  away  altogether. 

Yet  this  was  not  bravado  for,  so  far  as  they 
knew,  no  one  was  watching  them.  It  was  due 
to  a  certain  dignity  peculiar  to  our  fighting 
man.  He  is  too  proud  to  acknowledge  defeat. 
He  is  a  man,  and  whether  any  one  is  watching 
or  not,  he  is  not  going  to  run  away  from  a 
shell.  Hundreds  of  lives  must  have  been  lost 
through  this  stubborn  pride  but,  on  the  other 
hand,  thousands  of  lives  must  have  been  saved 
by  it,  for  it  makes  the  Army  absolutely  proof 
against  panic,  than  which,  nothing  is  so  fatal 
in  war.  In  eighteen  months  on  the  Front  I 
have  never  seen  or  heard  of  a  single  case  of 
panic  either  with  many  or  few.  Our  soldiers 
are  always  masters  of  themselves.  They  have 
the  coolness  to  judge  what  is  the  wisest  thing 
to  do  in  the  circumstances,  and  they  have  the 
nerve  to  carry  it  out.  They  run  unnecessary 
risks  through  pride  but  never  through  panic. 
All  that  day  on  the  bridge,  a  military  police- 
man stood  at  his  post  of  duty.  Like  Vesuvius 
of  old  the  exploding  shells  in  the  Square  sent 


Easter  Sunday  79 

up  their  deadly  eruption,  and  like  the  Roman 
sentry  at  Pompeii,  he  stood  at  his  post.  As 
he  stood  there  I  saw  a  young  French  woman 
leave  her  house  and  pass  him  on  the  bridge. 
She  was  leaving  the  village  for  a  safer  place 
but  she  seemed  quite  composed  and  carried  a 
basket  on  her  left  arm. 

While  our  village  was  being  destroyed  we 
were  startled  by  a  tremendous  explosion  a  few 
miles  away;  and  looking  to  our  left  we  saw 
a  huge  tongue  of  flame  leap  up  to  the  sky, 
followed  by  a  wonderful  pillar  of  smoke  which 
stood  rigid  for  some  moments  like  a  monster 
tower  of  Babel  reaching  up  to  the  heavens. 
Evidently  a  dump  of  cordite  had  been  fired 
by  an  enemy  shell.  Farther  off  still,  another 
dump  was  on  fire.  Time  and  again,  bright 
flames  leapt  from  the  ground  only  to  be  smoth- 
ered again  by  dense  curling  masses  of  smoke. 
It  seemed  as  if  our  whole  front  was  on  fire, 
and  news  came  to  us  that  our  main  road  of 
communication  had  been  heavily  shelled,  and 
was  now  strewn  with  dead  horses  and  men. 
Before  the  battle  of  the  Somme  there  were  no 
signs  and  portents  so  terrible  as  these.  It  was 
evident  that  the  enemy  knew  what  was  in  store 
for  him  on  the  morrow,  and  was  preparing 
against  it,  but  if  the  prelude  was  so  magnificent 
in  its  terror,  what  would  the  battle  be?    Imagin- 


80  Easter  Sunday 

ation  staggered  under  the  contemplation.  By 
four  o'clock  the  bombardment  was  almost  at  an 
end,  and  nearly  all  the  shells  in  the  Square  had 
exploded.  The  soldiers  began  to  creep  out  of 
the  cellars.  On  passing  through  the  Square  we 
were  amazed  at  the  sight.  In  fact  the  Trans- 
port Officer  passed  through  at  my  side  without 
recognizing  the  place.  At  the  entrance  was  a 
team  of  six  dead  mules  lying  prone  on  the 
ground  and  terribly  torn.  Two  rows  of  houses 
had  disappeared,  leaving  mere  heaps  of  stones 
in  their  places.  The  pavement  was  torn  up, 
and  the  wrecks  of  the  ammunition  wagons  lay 
scattered  about.  Two  houses  were  still  burn- 
ing. Our  colonel  and  adjutant  we  found  by 
the  side  of  the  stream.  They  had  been  in  a 
cellar  near  the  Square  all  day  but,  fortunately, 
they  were  little  the  worse  for  the  experience. 
They  were  giving  orders  for  the  assembling 
of  the  scattered  regiment. 

By  this  time,  civilians  were  leaving  the  cel- 
lars, and  with  armfuls  of  household  goods, 
hastening  from  the  village.  To  them  it  seemed 
the  end  of  all  things — the  day  of  doom.  Some 
of  them  had  slight  wounds  and  as  they  passed 
us  they  cried  mournfully,  "Finis,  Messieurs, 
Finis."  All  was  lost.  This  exodus  of  the 
despairing  civilians  was  the  saddest  sight  of  the 
day.    By  sunset  the  regiment  had  been  gathered 


Easter  Sunday  81 

together — all  except  the  wounded  who  had 
been  sent  to  the  Main  Dressing  Station  and 
the  dead  who  had  been  placed  side  by  side  and 
covered  with  blankets.  Most  of  our  officers 
and  men  had  lost  all  their  belongings,  but  in 
the  twilight  they  marched  out  of  the  village 
and  took  their  places  in  the  reserve  trenches 
near  the  other  battalions.  These  had  suffered 
no  losses.  They  had  been  saved  the  long  day's 
agony.  Early  in  the  morning  the  battle  was 
to  begin  but  the  Westminsters  knew  that  no 
worse  experience  could  await  them  than  that 
through  which  they  had  already  passed. 

Next  morning  I  buried,  near  the  ruined 
church,  the  bodies  of  the  sergeants  who  had 
been  killed  a  few  doors  from  us;  and  on  the 
following  day  I  laid  to  rest,  side  by  side,  in  one 
long  grave,  two  drivers  who  had  died  at  their 
posts  in  the  Square,  together  with  an  officer 
and  twenty  men  belonging  to  the  1st  Queen's 
Westminster  Rifles. 


VII 
"NOW  THE  DAY  IS  OVER" 

ACHICOURT  Is  a  little  village  about 
a  mile  out  of  Arras.  It  has  two 
churches,  one  Roman  Catholic,  the 
other,  Lutheran.  The  former  church  has  been 
utterly  destroyed  by  German  shells,  and  will 
have  to  be  rebuilt  from  the  foundations.  The 
Lutheran  church  was  less  prominently  placed, 
and  its  four  walls  are  still  standing.  Its 
humility  has  saved  it,  but,  as  by  fire.  All  its 
windows  are  gone,  and  its  walls  are  torn  and 
scarred  by  fragments  of  shells.  Most  of  its 
slates  have  been  destroyed  and  the  rain  pours 
through  the  roof.  But,  on  dry  days,  and  until 
the  Battle  of  Arras,  it  was  a  beloved  little 
place  for  services.  It  stood,  however,  at  a 
corner  of  the  village  Square,  and  the  Square 
was  destroyed  by  hundreds  of  exploding  shells 
on  Easter  Sunday.  As  I  passed  it  in  the  after- 
noon of  that  day,  and  saw  how  it  had  suffered, 
my  heart  grew  sad  within  me. 

Often  it  had  sheltered  us  at  worship,  and 


"Now  the  Day  Is  Over"  83 

many  of  our  most  sacred  memories  will,  for 
ever,  cling  like  iv^y  to  its  walls.  The  door  was 
smashed  in,  the  vestibule  torn  into  strips  as 
by  lightning.  The  pews  were  strewn  on  the 
floor  with  their  backs  broken;  even  the  frames 
of  the  windows  had  been  blown  out.  There 
was  a  little  portable  organ  that  we  had  used 
with  our  hymns,  and  it  lay  mutilated  on  the 
floor  like  a  slaughtered  child.  The  floor  was 
white  with  plaster,  as  when  a  sharp  frost  has 
brought  low  the  cherry  blossom.  Never  again, 
I  thought,  should  I  gather  my  men  for  worship 
within  its  humble,  hospitable  walls.  One  more 
of  the  beautiful  and  sacred  things  of  life  had 
perished  in  this  all-devouring  war.  Only  the 
fields  remained,  and  there  all  my  future  services 
must  be  held. 

But  "fears  may  be  liars"  and  so  mine  proved. 
I  had  reckoned  without  the  man  in  khaki — 
that  master  of  fate  whose  head  "beneath  the 
bludgeonings  of  chance,  is  bloody  but  un- 
bowed." In  a  week  he  had  cleared  the  Square 
of  its  dead — mules  and  men — filled  in  its 
craters,  and  cleared  away  the  debris  that 
blocked  the  roads.  He  was  even  removing  the 
fallen  houses  in  order  to  mend  the  roads  with 
their  bricks  and  stones;  and  he  had  thrown 
together  all  the  scraps  of  iron  for  salvage. 
There  I  found,  lying  side  by  side,  the  burned 


84  "Now  the  Day  Is  Over" 

tin-soldiers  of  the  children;  officers'  revolvers 
which,  being  loaded,  had  exploded  in  the  heat; 
bayonets  and  rifle-barrels  of  the  men;  broken 
sewing  machines  of  the  women.  He  had  taken 
in  hand,  too,  the  little  church.  Sacking  was 
spread  across  the  windows;  the  remnants  of 
the  little  organ  were  carefully  placed  under 
the  pulpit  where  they  lay  like  the  body  of  a 
saint  beneath  an  altar;  the  floor  was  swept  of 
its  fallen  plaster.  The  pews  were  repaired  and 
placed  in  order  again,  and  a  new  door  was 
made.  Even  timber  was  brought  for  a  new 
vestibule.  The  wood  was  rough  and  un- 
painted — Tommy  had  to  use  what  he  could  get 
— but  it  served.  The  twisted  railings  were 
drawn  away  from  the  entrance,  and,  on  the 
following  Sunday,  we  were  back  in  our  old 
sanctuary.  We  felt  that  it  was  more  sacred 
than  ever.  These  are  the  deeds  of  our  fight- 
ing-man that  make  us  love  him  so  much,  and 
these  are  the  acts  of  kindness  and  common 
sense  that  make  us  admire  our  commanders. 
Both  officers  and  men  have  the  heart  of  a  lion 
in  the  hour  of  battle,  the  gentleness  of  a  lamb 
when  it  is  over.  Whatever  their  circumstances, 
they  cannot  cease  to  be  gentlemen,  nor  forget 
the  fathers  that  begat  them. 

Let  him  who  doubts  the  future  of  England 
come  hither.    He  will  see  the  past  through  the 


"Now  the  Day  Is  Over"  85 

present,  and  the  future  through  both.  Tommy's 
eyes  are  the  crystal  gazlng-glasses  in  which  he 
will  discern  the  future.  Tommy  is  living  his- 
tory and  the  prophecy  of  the  future  made 
flesh.  The  pessimists  have  not  seen  Tommy 
here,  and  that  is  why  they  are  what  they  are. 
"Age  cannot  wither  nor  custom  stale"  his  in- 
finite freshness  and  resource.  He  is  a  sword 
that  the  rust  of  time  cannot  corrode,  nor  the 
might  of  an  enemy  break,  and  he  will  be  found 
flashing  wherever  there  are  wrongs  to  right  and 
weak  to  be  defended.  On  Easter  Sunday  he 
was  calmly  enduring  the  horror  of  the  German 
bombardment  and  the  explosions  of  his  own 
dump  of  shells.  On  Easter  Monday  he  was 
driving  the  Germans  at  the  point  of  his  bayonet, 
or  accepting  their  surrender  at  the  doors  of 
their  dug-outs!  On  Easter  Tuesday  and 
Wednesday  he  was  repairing  a  little  French 
chapel  for  worship.  Take  him  which  day 
you  will,  and  you  will  find  him  mighty  hard  to 
match.  To  me  he  is  the  king  of  men,  and 
his  genius,  cheerfulness  and  resourcefulness  be- 
yond the  range  of  explanations. 

After  some  weeks  of  fighting  we  had  come 
to  our  last  Sunday  in  Achicourt,  and  were 
gathered  for  the  evening  service.  The  chapel 
was  jammed  with  officers  and  men,  but  not  all 
my  flock  was  there.    There  was  Rifleman  Gib- 


86  "Now  the  Day  Is  Over" 

son  absent.  He  was  carrying  his  beloved 
Lewis  gun  in  an  attack  wlien  a  bullet  struck 
him,  and  he  died,  as  his  comrades  report,  with 
a  smile  upon  his  face.  Before  going  into  the 
battle  he  had  given  me  his  father's  address 
and  thanked  me  for  the  spiritual  help  he  had 
received  at  the  services.  It  was  his  farewell 
to  me,  and  his  father  now  has  the  penciled 
words.  And  Rifleman  Stone  was  absent,  too. 
He  was  but  a  boy,  and  beautiful  with  youth 
and  goodness.  His  comrades  loved  him  as 
David  loved  Jonathan,  with  a  love  passing  the 
love  of  women.  Every  day,  they  told  me  in 
their  grief,  he  knelt  in  the  trench  to  say  his 
prayers  and  to  read  his  Bible.  One  night  after 
praying  he  laid  him  down  and  slept.  He  had 
often  sung  the  evening  hymn : 

"Jesus  protects;   my  fears,  be  gone! 

What  can  the  Rock  of  Ages  move? 
Safe  in  Thy  arm  I   lay  me  down, 
Thy   everlasting   arms   of   love. 

"While  Thou  art  intimately  nigh, 
Who,  then,  shall  violate  my  rest? 
Sin,   earth,   and  hell   I  now  defy; 
I  lean  upon  my  Saviour's  breast. 

"Me  for  Thine  own  Thou  lov'st  to  take, 
In  time   and  in   eternity, 
Thou  never,  never  wilt  forsake 
A  helpless  soul  that  trusts  in  Thee." 


"Now  the  Day  Is  Over"  87 

And  as  he  slept,  God  took  him  from  the 
misery  of  this  world — took  him  without  wak- 
ing him.  His  broken-hearted  comrades  gath- 
ered together  his  broken  body,  and  a  friend, 
a  Congregational  preacher,  who,  though  over 
mihtary  age,  was  serving  in  the  ranks,  read  the 
burial  service  over  him.  Lance-corporal  Gil- 
bert James  was  missing,  too — he  whom  I  had 
known  to  lose  his  breakfast  to  attend  a  service 
in  a  cold,  dirty,  old  barn.  And  many  others 
were  absent  whose  departure  to  the  Land  be- 
yond our  mortal  reach  was  to  us  like  the  putting 
out  of  stars. 

We  were  leaving  the  Arras  front  and  we 
sang  a  hymn  for  those  who  had  taken  our 
places : 

"O  Lord  of  Hosts,  Whose  mighty  arm 

In  safety  keeps  'mid  war's  alarm, 

Protect  our  comrades   at  the   Front 

V^ho  bear  of  war  the  bitter  brunt. 
And  in  the  hour  of  danger  spread 
Thy  sheltering  wings  above  each  head. 

"In  battle's  harsh  and  dreadful  hour, 
Make  bare  Thine  arm  of  sovereign  power, 
And  fight  for  them  who  fight  for  Thee, 
And  give  to  justice,  victory. 

O  in  the  hour  of  danger  spread 

Thy  sheltering  wings  above  each  head. 


88  "Now  the  Day  Is  Over" 

"If  by  the  way  they  wounded  lie, 
O  listen  to  their  plaintive  cry; 
And  rest  them  on  Thy  loving  breast, 
O  Thou  on  Whom  the  cross  was  pressed ; 
And  in  the  hour  of  danger  shed 
Thy  glorious  radiance  o'er  each  head. 

"When  pestilence  at  noonday  wastes, 
And  death  in  triumph  onward  hastes, 
O   Saviour   Christ,   remember   Nain, 
And   give   us   our   beloved   again. 
In  every  ward  of  sickness  tread. 
And  lay  Thy  hand   upon  each  head. 

"O  Friend  and   Comforter  divine, 
Who  makest   light  at  midnight  shine, 
Give   consolation   to   the   sad 
Who  in  the  days  of  peace  were  glad. 
And  in  the  hour  of  sorrow  spread 
Thy  wings  above  each  drooping  head. 

Amen." 

I  had  to  find  a  new  voice  to  start  it,  for  our 
little  organ  had  been  destroyed  by  a  shell, 
and  our  precentor  way  lying  in  a  grave  beside 
his  Medical  Aid  Post  at  Guemappe.  When, 
on  Good  Friday,  we  had  sung  the  hymn  be- 
fore, the  regiment  returned  from  rest  billets  to 
the  line,  he  had  started  the  tune.  His  love 
for  music  was  second  only  to  that  of  risking 
his  life  for  the  wounded.  In  one  of  his  letters 
given  me  to  censor,  he  had  written,  "How  nice 
it  will  be  to  be  back  in  my  old  place  In  the 
choir."     But  he  was  destined  not  to  go  back. 


"Now  the  Day  Is  Over"  89 

His  path  was  onward  and  upward,  and  his 
place  was  in  the  heavenly  choir.  I  had  seen 
it  in  his  large,  tender  blue  eyes.  There  was 
in  them  an  expression  as  if  he  had  seen  "the 
land  that  is  very  far  off."  I  felt  that  he  was 
chosen  as  a  sacrifice — that  the  seal  of  God  was 
on  his  forehead. 

Still,  we  had  to  sing,  though  his  voice  was 
silent.  So  we  sang — several  tunes,  for  hymns 
seemed  all  our  spirits  needed.  What  need 
was  there  for  a  sermon  when  we  had  hymns? 
We  left  the  rag-time  type  of  hymn  and  sang 
the  real  deep  things  that  come  from  men's 
hearts,  and  ever  after  are  taken  up  by  their 
fellows  to  express  their  deepest  aspirations  and 
experiences.  The  ruined  chapel  vibrated  with 
music,  and  men,  I  am  told,  stood  in  the  street 
to  listen  while  "Jesus,  Lover  of  my  Soul," 
"Rock  of  Ages,"  "When  I  Survey  the  Won- 
drous  Cross"  and  "The  Sands  of  Time  are 
Sinking"  told  of  the  faith  and  love  that  lift 
up  the  heart.  We  also  sang  "Abide  with  Me." 
After  hearing  us  sing  it  one  night,  a  Roman 
Catholic  officer  in  the  regiment,  a  Canadian 
and  one  of  the  bravest,  most  beloved  men  that 
ever  walked,  told  me  that  he  was  a  great- 
grandson  of  the  author.  He  is  in  hospital 
now  with  severe  wounds,  but  his  men  were 
present. 


90  "Now  the  Day  Is  Over" 

"Couldn't  we  take  up  a  collection  for  the 
repair  of  the  chapel  when  peace  comes?" 
whispered  a  rifleman;  "it  would  be  a  sort  of 
thanksgiving  for  the  good  times  we  have  had 
in  it,  and  for  the  kindness  of  the  congregation 
in  giving  us  the  use  of  it  so  freely." 

I  put  the  suggestion  to  the  men  and  they 
voted  for  it  with  enthusiasm.  Two  of  them 
went  round  with  their  caps  and  out  of  their 
shallow  purses  the  big-hearted  fellows  gave 
over  lOO  francs.  In  the  name  of  the  men  I 
presented  the  full  caps  to  a  lady  of  the  con- 
gregation who  was  present,  and  she  was 
moved  to  tears.  The  time  was  quickly  passing, 
so  I  mounted  the  pulpit  and  told  them  of 
words  spoken  after  the  earth's  first  great 
trouble,  when  the  black  wings  of  death  had 
cast  their  shadow  over  every  home:  "And  God 
said,  I  do  set  my  bow  in  the  cloud,  and  it 
shall  be  for  a  token  of  a  covenant  between  me 
and  the  earth.  And  it  shall  come  to  pass,  when 
I  bring  a  cloud  over  the  earth,  that  the  bow 
shall  be  seen  in  the  cloud." 

"God,"  I  said,  "has  made  a  covenant  with 
man,  for  man  is  His  neighbor  and  subject;  and 
there  must  be  an  understanding  between  them, 
if  there  is  to  be  peace  and  happiness.  Man 
must  know  God's  will  or  he  will  grieve  Him 
and  there  will  be  discord  and  pain.    Also,  man 


"Now  the  Day  Is  Over"  91 

must  know  God's  intentions  concerning  him, 
and  something  of  His  ways,  or  else  he  will  live 
in  fear  and  dread  of  the  Almighty  One  in 
whose  power  he  lies.  There  were  no  books 
and  parchment  in  the  first  days,  so  God  took 
the  sky  for  His  parchment,  and  dipping  His 
fingers  in  the  most  lovely  of  colors,  wrote  out 
His  covenant  with  man.  He  spread  it  out  be- 
tween earth  and  heaven  so  that  man  might  look 
up  and  see  it  without  obstruction,  and  so  that 
He  Himself  might  look  down  on  it  and  re- 
member His  agreement,  'The  bow,'  He  said, 
'shall  be  in  the  cloud;  and  I  will  look  upon 
it,  that  I  may  remember  the  everlasting 
covenant.'  " 

"When  you  draw  up  a  covenant  with  a  neigh- 
bor, you  look  well  at  it  and  then  give  it  to  your 
attorney,  who  puts  it  away  in  the  darkness 
of  the  safe.  But  it  is  taken  out  at  intervals 
for  fresh  examination.  And  the  rainbow- 
covenant  was  put  away  behind  the  clouds,  to  be 
brought  out  again  from  time  to  time  to  bring 
comfort  and  strength  to  man  by  its  appear- 
ance. The  rainbow  is  only  half  seen  by  man. 
The  lower  half  of  its  circle  is  lost  in  the 
earth.  It  exists,  but  unseen.  And  the  full 
circle  of  God's  beautiful  covenant  with  man 
has  never  appeared  to  our  eyes.  A  full  half 
is    lost    in    the    unapprehending    darkness    of 


92  "Now  the  Day  Is  Over" 

man's  mind.  The  full  purpose  of  God  is  not 
realized.  His  plans  are  too  vast  and  glorious 
for  the  intellect  or  imagination  to  span;  but 
half  the  rainbow  is  seen  and  it  is  enough.  See- 
ing half  we  can  take  the  rest  on  trust.  In  the 
covenant  we  are  assured  that  we  shall  never  be 
given  darkness  without  light,  winter  without 
summer,  seedtime  without  harvest,  death  with- 
out birth,  sorrow  Vv^ithout  joy,  or  a  thick  cloud 
without  a  rainbow.  He  binds  Himself  not  to 
give  evil  without  good,  or  to  bring  tears  with- 
out laughter.  "I  do  set  My  bow  in  the  cloud; 
and  it  shall  come  to  pass  when  I  bring  a  cloud 
over  the  earth,  that  the  bow  shall  be  seen  in  the 
cloud." 

"A  rainbow  is  made  up  of  rain  and  sunshine 
and  life  is  woven  of  the  same  stuff — tears  and 
laughter.  The  most  glorious  sunshine  is  in- 
capable of  a  rainbow  without  the  co-operation 
of  the  dark  trailing  clouds;  and  it  is  impossible 
for  the  human  character  to  reach  its  ripest 
maturity  and  beauty  on  joy  alone.  Sorrow  is 
as  beneficent  and  necessary  as  joy.  There  are 
untutored  natives  who  dread  the  rainbow. 
They  believe  that  it  is  a  serpent  that  rises  out 
of  the  pools  to  devour  men;  and  there  are 
unbelieving  men  in  cultured  lands  who  dread 
adversity  no  less.  They  do  not  believe  that 
God  'brings  the  cloud.'     The  rainbow  is  their 


"Now  the  Day  Is  Over"  93 

refutation  and  it  is  written  across  the  sky  for 
all  to  see.  On  the  other  hand,  there  are  un- 
beheving  men  who  see  only  the  cloud  and  are 
blind  to  the  sunshine.  To  them  life  is  one  long 
tragedy.  It  is  an  immense  futility.  They  re- 
gard man  as  a  mere  cork  in  the  sea,  thrown 
about  by  blind,  deaf,  unintelligible  natural 
forces  void  of  purpose;  active  indeed  but  un- 
governed.  Human  life  to  them  is  a  black 
cloud  driven  through  immensity  by  the  winds 
of  unintelligent  fate.  It  has  no  meaning  and 
its  darkness  is  the  deeper  because  they  cannot 
call  a  halt  and  disperse  it  into  nothingness. 
Like  Job's  wife  they  would  say  'Curse  God  and 
die,'  yet  they  cannot  die.  But  Job,  as  he  sits 
on  the  dunghill,  looks  up  at  the  rainbow  and 
finds  a  truer  philosophy.  'What?'  says  he, 
'shall  we  receive  good  at  the  hand  of  God,  and 
shall  we  not  receive  evil?'  Under  the  rain- 
bow's arch  there  are  fruitful  fields  and  beautiful 
gardens  for  where  the  rainbow  hangs  in  air 
there  is  sunshine  and  there  is  rain — the  parents 
of  fruitfulness.  And  to  whom  God  gives  in 
equal  measure  joy  and  sorrow  there  is  beauty 
and  fruitfulness  of  heart  and  life.  His  promise 
to  'every  living  creature'  is  that  He  will  never 
send  the  cloud  without  the  sunshine  and,  what 
is  not  less  gracious.  He  will  never  send  the 
sunshine  without  the  cloud.     When  by  day  the 


94  "Now  the  Day  Is  Over" 

Israelites  tramped  the  fiery  desert  He  led  them 
by  a  pillar  of  cloud,  and  they  marched  in  its 
shade;  and  in  the  blackness  of  night  He  threw 
in  the  sky  a  pillar  of  sunshine;  and  they 
walked  through  the  gloom  in  its  light. 

"In  these  terrible  days  of  war  when  our 
hearts  begin  to  fail  us  and  dark  doubts  cloud 
the  mind,  let  us  look  at  the  Covenant  God 
has  made  with  us.  He  has  set  it  in  rainbow 
colors  across  the  sky,  that  'he  who  runs  may 
read'  and  'the  wayfaring  man  though  a  fool 
may  not  err.'  God  has  flung  his  rainbow  over 
the  trench  and  the  grave;  over  the  Garden  of 
Gethsemane;  over  the  Cross  on  Calvary.  It 
is  over  the  tomb  in  the  Arimathean's  Garden; 
and  over  Olivet,  as  Christ  ascends  to  heaven. 
We  are  born  under  the  rainbow,  live  under  it, 
die  under  it.  At  the  last  we  shall  find  it  over 
the  throne  of  Judgment.  Water  and  blood 
flowed  from  Christ's  side;  and  life  and  death, 
joy  and  pain,  light  and  darkness,  summer  and 
winter,  peace  and  war  come  forth  from  God. 

"Let  us  take  life  as  it  comes  with  obedient 
wills  and  grateful  hearts.  The  bee  finds  honey 
in  the  thistle  as  well  as  in  the  rose,  and  'where 
the  bee  sucks  there  suck  I,'  for  He  who  guides 
the  bee  guides  me.  Only  in  loving  obedience 
to  God  shall  we  find  true  wisdom.  It  is  not 
so  much  what  we  are  given  as  how  we  take 


"Now  the  Day  Is  Over"  95 

it  that  matters.  To  be  humble  nothing  may 
be  so  sweet  as  sorrow;  and  to  the  proud  nothing 
may  be  so  bitter  as  pleasure.  Let  us  leave 
God  to  mix  the  ingredients  of  our  life,  for 
'all  things  work  together  for  good  to  them 
that  love  God.'  It  is  all  in  the  covenant 
written  by  God's  fingers  in  the  colors  of  the 
rainbow,  and  whenever  He  brings  it  from  be- 
yond the  clouds,  let  us  look  at  it  with  reverent 
eyes,  and  ponder  its  promise.  Then  shall  we 
be  able  to  say,  with  Wordsworth, 

'My  heart  leaps  up  when  I  behold 
A  rainbow   in  the  sky.' " 

After  I  had  finished  speaking  we  sang,  at 
the  request  of  one  of  the  sergeants,  the  hymn 
commencing 

"The  Day  Thou  gavest  Lord  is  ended, 
The  darkness  falls  at  Thy  behest" 

And  beautiful  indeed  was  the  singing  of  it. 

The  Benediction  followed.  Just  as  I  was 
ending  it  an  impulse  came  to  me,  and  I  yielded 
to  its  importunity.  "Before  we  part  and  before 
we  leave  Achicourt  which  has  meant  so  much 
to  us  of  joy  and  sorrow,"  I  said,  "let  us  sing 
a  kiddies'  hymn.  We  still  shelter  in  our  hearts 
a  little  child.  Though  we  have  grown  mous- 
taches and  some  of  us  gray  hairs,  the  child 


96  "  Now  the  Day Js  Over  " 

that  we  once  were,  never  quite  dies.  Let  us 
have  a  hymn  for  the  boy  within  us  who  never 
grows  up  and  never  dies."  Then  I  read  out 
verse  by  verse,  for  it  was  not  in  their  books: 

"Now   the   day   is   over, 
Night   is    drawing   nigh, 
Shadows    of    the    evening 
Steal   across  the  sky. 

"Jesus,    give   the   weary 
Calm    and    sweet    repose; 
With  Thy  tenderest  blessing 
May    their    eyelids   close. 

"Grant    to    little    children 
Visions   bright   of   Thee; 
Guarding  the   sailors  tossing 
On   the    angry   sea. 

"Comfort  every  sufferer 
Watching   late   in  pain; 
Those   who   plan   some   evil 
From   their   sin    restrain. 

"When  the  morning  wakens, 
Then  may  I  arise 
Pure   and   fresh,   and   sinless 
In  Thy  holy  eyes." 

I  have  witnessed  many  moving  sights  in  my 
time  and  heard  much  deep  and  thrilHng  music; 
but  I  have  never  been  so  deeply  moved  by 
anything  as  by  the  rich,  deep  voices  of  these 
gallant  men  and  boys  who,  after  winning  the 


,     "Now  the  Day  Is  Over"  97 

Battle  of  Arras,  had  come  Into  this  ruined 
church  and  were  singing  this  beautiful  kiddies' 
hymn  as  their  last  farewell. 

The  collection  the  boys  had  taken  up  had 
been  so  heavy  that  we  carried  it  to  the  French 
lady's  house  for  her.  As  we  entered  her  home 
she  said  in  her  simple  way,  as  her  eyes  grew 
radiant  with  gratitude,  "I  like  the  English 
soldiers."  It  was  the  voice  of  France.  And 
she  was  worthy  to  speak  for  France.  For 
two-and-a-half  years  her  house  had  stood 
within  a  mile  of  the  German  trenches,  and  but 
a  few  hundred  yards  from  our  own  firing  line. 
Yet  she  and  her  mother  had  never  left  it.  She 
introduced  me  to  her  mother,  who  had  lived 
in  London,  and  spoke  English.  Then  she 
brought  in  coffee.  I  had  noticed  a  most  re- 
markable thing  about  the  house.  There  was 
not  a  piece  of  glass  broken,  nor  a  mark  of 
war  on  the  walls.  It  was  the  only  house  I 
have  seen,  either  in  Achicourt  or  Arras,  upon 
which  the  war  has  not  laid  its  monstrous  and 
bloody  finger.  "How  is  it,"  I  asked  the 
mother,  "that  your  house  has  not  been 
touched?"  Her  eyes  shone  and  a  sweet  smile 
lit  up  her  face.  "It  is  the  will  of  God,"  she 
said  simply.  "Shells  have  fallen  a  little  short 
of  us  and  a  little  beyond  us.  They  have  passed 
within  a  yard  of  the  house,  and  we  have  heard 


98  "Now  the  Day  Is  Over" 

the   rushing  of  the  wind  as  they  passed,  but 
they  have  not  touched  us.     When  the  village 
has  been  bombarded  we  have  gone  down  into 
the  cellar  as  was  but  discretion  and  duty,  but 
we  have  had  the  conviction  all  along  that  we 
should  be  spared,  and  we  refused  to  leave  the 
house.     We  do  not  know  God's  purpose  but 
we  believe  that  it  is  God's  will  to  spare  us." 
I  leave  the  fact  to  speak  for  itself  and  offer 
no   explanation.      Skeptics  will   say  the   house 
was   spared  by  accident;   but  they  would  not 
have  stayed  there  two-and-a-half  years  trusting 
to  such  an  accident.     These  two  women,  with- 
out a  man  in  the  house,   stayed  on  the  very 
confines  of  hell  with  its  hourly  suspense  and 
danger  for  nearly  three  years,  because  they  be- 
lieved it  was  God's  will  and  that,  though  they 
walked  through  the  fiery  furnace  heated  seven 
times  hotter  than  it  was  wont  to  be  heated, 
He  would  not  allow  so  much  as  a  hair  of  their 
heads  to  be  singed.    And  not  a  hair  was  singed. 
They  were  women  in  whom  faith  burned  like 
a  bright  pillar  of  fire.     One  caught  its  light, 
and   felt   Its   heat.      I   have   met  patriots   and 
heroes  and  know  their  quality  when  I  see  them 
and  come  near  them.     These  were  "the  real 
thing."     Faith  In  God  and  faith  In  their  coun- 
try were   interwoven   in  their  spirits  like   sun 
and  shower  in  a  rainbow.  They  were  of  the 


"Now  the  Day  Is  Over"  99 

same  breed  as  the  Maid  of  France,  and  like 
her,  with  their  white  banner  bearing  the  de- 
vice of  the  Cross,  they  withstood  and  defied 
the  might  and  terror  of  the  invader.  They 
beheved  it  was  God's  will  they  should  stay, 
to  "Be  still  and  know  that  I  am  God."  Their 
experience  was  expressed  by  the  Psalmist 
centuries  ago:  "God  is  our  refuge  and 
strength,  a  very  present  help  in  trouble.  There- 
fore will  not  we  fear,  though  the  earth  be 
removed,  and  though  the  mountains  be  carried 
into  the  midst  of  the  sea.  Though  the  waters 
thereof  roar  and  be  troubled,  though  the  moun- 
tains shake  with  the  swellings  thereof  .  .  . 
Come  behold  the  works  of  the  Lord,  what 
desolations  He  hath  made  In  the  earth.  He 
maketh  wars  to  cease  unto  the  end  of  the  earth; 
He  breaketh  the  bow,  and  cutteth  the  spear  In 
sunder;  He  burneth  the  chariot  in  the  fire.  .  .  . 
The  Lord  of  Hosts  is  with  us;  the  God  of 
Jacob  is  our  refuge." 

Such  was  the  faith  of  these  two  women,  and 
their  courage  few  men  have  approached.  It 
is  a  practical  matter,  and  after  comparing  it 
with  the  skeptic's  theory  of  accident  and  coin- 
cidence and  remembering  his  probable  haste  in 
seeking  a  place  not  so  liable  to  untoward  acci- 
dents, I  accept  the  explanation  of  the  women. 
Their   house   was   spared   and   not   a   hair  of 


100  "Now  the  Day  Is  Over" 

their  heads  injured  because  "it  was  God's  will." 
If  it  is  not  the  correct  theory,  it  ought  to  be. 
Otherwise  falsehood  is  more  sustaining  than 
truth,  and  inspires  nobler  conduct. 

The  day  was  now  over.  A  new  chapter  of 
life  had  been  written,  and  in  the  morning,  we 
left  behind  us  this  village  of  precious  memories, 
and  marched  out  again  into  the  unknown. 


VIII 
SONS  OF  THE  MOTHERLAND 

IT  is  said  that  the  eel  is  born  in  the  deepest 
part  of  the  ocean,  thousands  of  miles 
from  any  country,  and  that,  urged  by  an 
overpowering  instinct  it  begins  almost  at  once 
to  rise  towards  the  light  and  to  head  for  the 
land.  After  slowly  swimming  thousands  of 
miles  it  reaches  our  rivers,  and  pushes  its  way 
up  to  their  sources,  and  even  crawls  through 
the  grass  out  of  one  stream  into  another.  Here, 
if  uncaught  by  man,  it  lives  for  years  gorging 
an  appetite  which  only  developed  on  reaching 
the  fresh  water.  Then,  the  overmastering  in- 
stinct that  brought  it  out,  takes  it  back.  It 
returns  through  the  illimitable  waters  until  it 
finds  the  place  where  it  was  born.  There  the 
female  lays  her  eggs  and  there  male  and  female 
die.  The  eggs  hatch,  and  the  young  do  as 
their  parents  did  before  them. 

I  do  not  think  I  could  kill  or  eat  an  eel. 

I  have   too   much   reverence   for   it   now  that 

I   have  learned  its   story.     When   in  the   fish 

market   I   see   an   eel   struggling,    I   feel   that 

101 


102  Sons  of  the  Motherland 

I  want  to  take  It  and  drop  it  into  the  sea 
that  it  may  go  to  its  long  home  "far  from 
the  madding  crowd's  ignoble  strife."  How 
passionate  and  wild  must  be  its  desire  to 
get  back  to  its  own  ocean  depths  where  it 
may  perpetuate  its  kind  and  die  in  peace. 
Its  appetite  is  voracious,  but  then,  what  but 
the  mightiest  and  most  elemental  instincts  and 
appetites  could  carry  it  through  achievements 
so  sublime  and  tragic.  Picture  it  on  its  lone 
way  through  the  deep,  urged  on  by  it  knows 
not  what.  Scientists  say  that  man  has  evolved 
from  a  tiny  form  of  life  that  passed  through 
the  fish  stage.  If  so,  it  explains  a  lot  and  I, 
for  one,  shall  not  be  ashamed  to  acknowledge 
relationship  to  a  fish  with  a  life  story  as  sub- 
lime as  that  of  the  eel.  I  know  that  Genesis 
speaks  truly  when  it  says  that  God  made  us 
out  of  the  dust  of  the  earth  and  breathed  into 
our  souls  the  breath  of  His  own  being  thus 
animating  dust  with  divinity.  And  if  from  the 
other  inspired  book,  the  book  of  Nature,  scien- 
tists can  teach  how  God  mixed  the  clay  when 
He  fashioned  man  I  will  accept  the  teaching 
with  gratitude,  for  it  will  help  me  to  under- 
stand things  that  are  dark  in  me  and  in  my 
fellows.  It  will  throw  light  on  the  wild 
longings,  and  instincts  immature,  that  baffle  the 
mind,  and  come  into  the  clear  shallow  streams 


Sons  of  the  Motherland  103 

of  Hfe  hke  eels  out  of  the  dark  unfathomable 
depths  of  the  ocean. 

Since  I  went  to  France  I  have  been  amazed 
at  the  homing  instinct  as  revealed  in  the  com- 
ing together  of  the  sons  of  the  British  Mother- 
land. People  at  home  do  not  quite  realize 
what  has  happened.  Britain's  sons  have  come 
back  to  her — have  come  back  to  die  that  their 
race  may  be  saved  and  perpetuated.  The 
British  are  a  roving  race.  A  large  number  of 
them  yield  to  an  overpowering  desire  to  go 
out  into  the  world.  The  South  Pole  and  the 
North  Pole  have  known  the  tread  of  their  feet. 
Their  ships  have  anchored  in  every  creek  of 
every  sea.  There  is  no  town  or  country  how- 
ever remote  where  their  voices  have  not  been 
heard.  Even  Mecca  could  not  keep  the  Briton 
out.  He  must  look  upon  its  Black  Stone.  All 
lands  call  him  to  come,  and  see,  and  conquer. 
He  colonizes  and  absorbs  but  cannot  be  ab- 
sorbed. He  is  a  Briton  still.  A  friend  of 
mine  told  me  that  when  visiting  Australia 
strangers  who  had  never  seen  England,  except 
in  and  through  their  fathers,  would  come  to 
him  in  railway  carriage  or  'bus,  and  ask  "How 
is  everything  at  Home?"  And  Dr.  Fitchett, 
Australia's  splendid  author,  confesses  that  when 
he  first  saw  the  land  of  his  fathers  he  knelt 
down  and  kissed  its  shore. 


104  Sons  of  the  Motherland 

Loving  the  homeland  with  a  passion  stronger 
than  death  the  Briton  leaves  it,  for  he  hears 
the  call  of  the  world  borne  on  the  winds  and 
waves  from  afar,  and  cannot  refuse  it.  In 
foreign  lands  he  lives  and  labors.  He  roams 
their  fields  and  swims  in  their  streams,  but  al- 
ways with  an  ear  listening  for  the  voice  of  the 
Motherland;  for  he  is  hers,  and  at  her  service 
if  she  calls. 

The  Declaration  of  War  on  Aug.  4,  19 14, 
was  the  Mother's  call  to  her  children.  Swifter 
than  lightning  it  passed  through  the  waves  and 
on  the  wings  of  the  wind.  The  settler  left  his 
lonely  cabin,  the  gold-digger  his  shovel,  the 
prospector  his  surveying  instruments,  the 
rancher  his  herds,  the  missionary  his  church, 
the  teacher  his  school,  the  clerk  his  office,  and 
all  made  for  the  nearest  port.  Within  a  month 
there  was  not  a  ship  on  the  wide  seas  but  was 
bearing  loyal  sons  back  to  their  Motherland's 
defense.  I  have  met,  in  France,  British 
soldiers  from  every  country  under  heaven.  I 
bent  over  a  dying  soldier  near  Arras  who  was 
a  clerk  in  Riga,  Russia,  when  the  call  came. 
And  one  night  on  the  Somme  a  fine  young 
fellow  from  Africa  entered  my  tent,  and  slept 
by  my  side.  He  v/as  one  of  the  most  charming 
and  handsome  men  I  have  ever  met,  and  had 
come    from    Durban.      He    had    fought    with 


Sons  of  the  Motherland  105 

Botha  in  Southwest  Africa,  and  at  the  conclu- 
sion of  that  campaign  had  shipped  for  home. 
Next  day  I  took  him  to  Delville  Wood  for  he 
wanted  to  see  the  place  where  his  brother  had 
died.  I  found  that  he  was  of  my  own  com- 
munion and  we  talked  about  some  of  my  col- 
lege friends  who  had  gone  out  to  Natal.  Two 
days  later,  he  died  of  wounds  in  a  dressing 
station.  Most  of  the  transport  officers  in  our 
Division  have  come  home  from  abroad,  and 
have  been  given  their  posts  because  they  are 
accustomed  to  horses.  One  was  prospecting  in 
Nigeria,  another  salmon-canning  in  Siberia,  a 
third  on  a  plantation  in  South  America. 

In  addition  to  Canadians,  South  Africans, 
Australians,  and  New  Zealanders,  who  have 
come  by  the  hundred  thousand  at  the  call  of 
the  Motherland,  there  are  hundreds  of  thou- 
sands who  have  come  singly,  or  in  small  parties, 
from  remote  corners  of  the  earth.  For  five 
weeks  I  was  a  patient  in  a  Canadian  hospital 
in  France.  The  entire  staff  was  Canadian. 
Some  were  Canadian  born;  others  had  gone  out 
to  that  country  years  ago.  All  were  of  British 
blood.  The  colonel  was  a  magnificent  speci- 
men of  manhood  from  London,  Ontario,  in 
which  city  he  had  been  born.  He  would  sit 
on  the  bed  and  tell  us  tales  of  the  great  snow- 
land.     Sometimes  he  would  scold  us  for  being 


106  Sons  of  the  Motherland 

so  blind  to  the  greatness  of  the  Empire  and  tell 
us  what  Canada  thought  of  the  Motherland. 
One  of  the  night  orderlies  would,  on  occasion, 
recite  to  us  some  poem  such  as  "Jim  Bludso," 
before  the  lights  went  out.  Then  he  would 
come  to  my  locker  and  take  "Palgrave's 
Treasury  of  Songs  and  Lyrics"  with  which  to 
regale  his  soul  during  the  long  watches  of  the 
night.  He  was  of  the  full  stature  of  men  and 
straight  as  a  pine.  He  had  gone  out  from 
Ireland  as  a  boy,  and  settled  on  a  cattle  ranch 
in  the  United  States.  One  day  there  was 
trouble  and  one  of  the  other  cowboys  sent  a 
bullet  clean  through  his  chest.  The  moment 
war  was  declared  he  left  his  roving  herds  of 
cattle,  crossed  the  frontier  into  Canada  and 
traveled  hundreds  of  miles  to  Winnipeg  to 
enlist.  The  doctor  looked  at  him.  "What  is 
this  scar  on  your  chest?"  he  asked.  "Oh,"  re- 
plied the  cowboy,  "I  fell  off  a  wagon  and 
knocked  the  skin  off."  The  doctor  turned  him 
round  and  put  his  finger  in  the  scar  on  his 
back  where  the  bullet  had  passed  out.  "And 
what  is  this  scar  at  the  back?  Did  you  fall 
off  another  wagon?"  And  the  two  men  under- 
stood one  another  and  laughed.  The  doctor 
could  not  find  it  in  his  heart  to  send  the  cow- 
boy back  to  his  ranch,  so  he  was  passed  into 
the  Canadian  contingent. 


Sons  of  the  Motherland  107 

One  of  the  nurses  we  called  "the  Little 
Mother."  She  had  gone  to  Canada  five  years 
before,  but  the  war  had  brought  her  back,  and 
well  was  it  for  us  that  it  had.  Among  the 
patients  wa3  a  doctor  in  the  American  A.  M.  C. 
His  ancestors  had  left  England  generations  ago 
and  settled  in  New  England,  but  he  had  come 
back  at  the  call  of  war — a  grandson  of  the 
Motherland.  Then  there  was  a  lieutenant  of 
British  stock  who  had  been  born  and  brought 
up  at  Antwerp,  but  as  the  German  guns  were 
destroying  his  native  city  he  took  ship  to  enlist 
in  the  British  army.  "Anzac"  was,  as  his  nick- 
name denotes,  an  Australian.  He  was  in  the 
Flying  Corps.  He  had  heard  the  call  at  school 
and  had  come  "home"  to  the  land  of  his  fathers. 

In  one  regiment  I  found  a  bunch  of  lads  who 
had  been  born  in  China.  But,  out  there  in 
Hong  Kong,  they  heard  the  call  of  a  Mother- 
land they  had  never  seen,  and  came  post  haste 
to  her  help.  Sitting  near  me  as  I  write,  is  an 
officer  back  from  the  Argentine,  and  already,  on 
his  arm,  is  a  gold  wound-stripe.  Another  in  the 
mess  had  been  pearl-fishing  in  Australia,  but 
stored  his  boats  to  come  and  fight.  Another 
at  our  table  was  born  in  Australia.  He  was 
with  Captain  Falcon  Scott  on  his  last  expedi- 
tion, and  saw  him  go  out  to  the  South  Pole 
and  death.     He   has   already  been   wounded. 


108  Sons  of  the  Motherland 

When  the  war  broke  out  its  tumult  seemed  to 
wake  our  fathers  and  we  felt  them  stir  in  our 
blood;  for  ancestors  are  not  put  into  graves 
but  are  buried  alive  in  their  sons.  We  felt  the 
call  to  defend  our  race  as  our  fathers  did  in 
their  day.  It  was  a  master  instinct,  and  the 
millions  of  men  who  voluntarily  left  home  and 
business  to  fight  show  how  deeply  nationality 
is  rooted  In  human  nature.  Returning  from  a 
far  land  to  die — if  needs  be — that  their  kind 
may  live,  the  scattered  sons  of  our  Motherland 
have  come  by  all  the  seas  to  defend  her,  in  her 
hour  of  need. 

"They  came  as  the  winds  come 
When  forests   are   rended; 
They  came  as  the  waves  come 
Wlien  navies  are  stranded." 


IX 
THE  TERROR  BY  NIGHT 

JUNE  was  a  flaming  month  on  the  high 
ground  we  had  captured  beyond  Arras. 
The  Quartermaster  and  Transport  Of- 
ficer with  whom  I  was  messing  were  both  "on 
leave"  so,  as  I  was  the  only  officer  left  in  the 
camp,  a  Baptist  padre,  whose  regiment  was 
near,  came  to  live  with  me.  I  had  a  little  brown 
tent  five  feet  wide  and  six  feet  long  which  a 
rifleman  had  lent  to  me  because  the  bell-tent 
I  was  expecting  had  not  arrived.  The  rifle- 
man did  not  need  his  tent,  for  he  and  his 
chums  had  built  themselves  a  little  dug-out. 
Next  day  the  bell-tent  arrived,  and  the  other 
padre  took  possession  of  it,  while  I  held  on  to 
the  little  brown  shelter.  Next  to  it  was  the 
kitchen  where  the  servants  slept  and  cooked. 
It  was  a  truly  wonderful  contrivance  of  wood, 
corrugated  iron  and  ground-sheets.  The  Bap- 
tist chaplain's  tent  was  round,  my  shelter  ob- 
long, but  what  shape  the  kitchen  was,  would 
pass  the  wit  of  man  to  say.     It  was  a  shape 

109 


110  The  Terror  By  Night 

never  seen  on  earth  before.  It  had  no  ancestor 
and  it  could  have  no  descendant.  Such  a  de- 
sign could  not  occur  twice.  Beyond  the  kitchen 
were  the  horse-lines  of  the  regiment  and  close 
by  them  the  regimental  stores.  It  was  so  hot 
that  we  all  wore  our  lightest  clothing;  and 
when  the  servants  got  lemons  from  Arras,  the 
lemonade  they  made  lasted  about  five  minutes 
only,  for  what  was  left  by  us  was  quickly  drunk 
up  by  the  servants  with  the  assistance  of  those 
who  like  to  frequent  such  happy  places  as  mess 
kitchens. 

All  our  meals  were  served  out  of  doors, 
under  the  blue  sky.  We  had  guests  most  days, 
for  officers  coming  out  from  the  homeland 
stayed  with  us  for  a  night  or  a  day  before 
going  up  with  the  rations  to  join  the  regiment 
in  the  trench.  Other  officers  had  come  down 
to  stay  with  us  on  their  way  to  a  course  at  some 
military  school;  and  one,  at  least,  came  to  wait 
for  the  day  on  which  he  was  to  take  his  "leave." 
We  were,  therefore,  a  very  merry  party.  It 
was  almost  like  camping  on  the  Yorkshire 
moors,  for  we  had  an  uninterrupted  view  of 
many  miles.  To  those  who  love  vast  stretches 
of  wild  barren  country  as  I  do,  the  scene  under 
the  flaming  June  sun  was  exceedingly  impres- 
sive. There  were  no  houses,  streams,  hedges, 
or  trees,  but  the  whole  area  was  scored  with 


The  Terror  By  Night  111 

trenches  cut  Into  the  white  chalk,  and  showing 
clearly  at  great  distances.  The  ground,  with 
but  short  spaces  between,  was  covered  with  en- 
campments. These  consisted  of  the  stores  and 
horse-lines  of  the  regiments  and  batteries  in 
the  line.  The  circle  of  the  horizon  was  bounded 
by  the  charred  ruins  of  French  villages — Beau- 
rains,  Neuville,  Vitasse,  Wancourt,  Monchy 
and  Tilloy.  We  could  see  the  flashing  of  our 
own  guns,  and  the  black  bursts  of  shells  from 
those  of  the  enemy. 

All  day  the  sky  was  thick  with  aeroplanes, 
and  many  were  too  high  to  be  seen  except 
through  strong  field  glasses.  We  watched  a 
German  aeroplane  circling  over  Arras  and 
directing  the  fire  of  the  long  giins.  Soon  the 
streets  were  strewn  with  dead  and  wounded, 
for  the  town  was  full  of  troops.  The  firing 
only  lasted  a  few  minutes,  however.  One  of 
our  aeroplanes  quickly  challenged  the  enemy  to 
single  combat;  and  we  soon  saw  the  German 
machine  falling  from  an  immense  height,  wing 
over  wing  and  head  over  tail,  utterly  out  of 
control. 

Dinner,  in  the  cool  of  the  evening,  was  a 
most  pleasant  meal.  As  we  drank  our  coffee 
we  watched  the  aeroplanes  returning  from  the 
line  like  birds  to  their  nests.  Sometimes  we 
counted  as  many  as  twenty,   all  heading  foE 


112  The  Terror  By  Night 

home  at  the  same  time.  The  sun  set  in  red 
and  golden  splendor,  and  we  wondered  what 
darkness  would  bring.  On  the  night  before 
our  arrival,  the  regiment  which  made  way  for 
us  had  one  of  its  storemen  killed  by  a  shell; 
and  on  most  nights  a  few  shells  fell  in  some 
part  or  other  of  the  vast  camp.  One  evening 
shells  fell  a  little  beyond  us  and  the  transport- 
sergeant  moved  his  horse-lines.  After  that, 
he  moved  them  every  evening  at  dark,  so  that 
the  ground  where  the  enemy  had  observed  the 
horses  in  the  day-time  was  left  vacant  when 
he  opened  fire  at  night.  It  was  a  game  of 
chess  with  horses  and  men  for  pawns,  and  life 
and  death  for  the  stakes. 

On  the  evening  before  our  guest — a  young 
lieutenant — was  to  go  on  leave,  he  got  very 
uneasy.  As  gulls  scent  the  approach  of  stormy 
weather  and  come  inland,  or  blackbirds  and 
larks  feel  the  approach  of  winter  and  migrate 
to  summer  lands,  so  men  can  sometimes  scent 
danger  and  coming  death.  He  had  with  him  a 
bottle  of  whisky,  and  he  kept  it  on  the  table 
outside  my  tent — a  safe  place  for  it. 

"I  don't  mind  telling  you  Padre,"  he  said, 
as  he  poured  out  a  glass,  "I've  got  the  'wind- 
up'  badly  to-night.  I  don't  like  the  feel  of 
things.  I  would  rather  be  in  the  trenches  than 
here,  because  I  know  what  is  likely  to  happen 


The  Terror  By  Night  US 

there,  but  here  in  the  open  I  feel  strange  and 
unprotected.  I  shall  be  glad  when  it  is. 
morning." 

His  feeling  was  quite  natural.  We  always 
feel  another  man's  dangers  more  than  our  own 
because  they  are  new  to  us  and  we  don't  know 
what  to  expect  or  how  to  meet  them.  A  man 
will  choose  a  big  danger  that  he  is  used  to, 
sooner  than  a  lesser  danger  that  is  new  to 
him.  Besides,  the  lieutenant  had  his  "leave- 
warrant"  in  his  breast  pocket  and  that  will  sap 
any  man's  courage.  He  has  a  feeling  that  the 
shells  are  after  his  "leave-warrant"  and  that 
the  gunners  know  where  it  is.  He  suspects  that 
fate  is  malignant  and  takes  a  special  delight 
in  killing  a  man  when  he  is  on  the  way  to 
"Blighty."  Many  a  man  has  been  killed  with 
a  "leave-warrant"  in  his  pocket,  or  "commis- 
sion papers"  in  it  which  were  taking  him  home. 

Our  doctor  told  me  how  one  night  he  and 
the  chaplain  who  preceded  m.e  were  riding  on 
the  front  of  an  ambulance  car  when  a  shell 
burst  and  with  a  fragment  killed  the  chaplain. 
In  the  padre's  pocket  was  his  warrant,  and  he 
was  taking  his  last  ride  before  going  home; 
but  instead  of  going  home  in  "Blighty"  he  went 
to  his  long  home,  and  the  warrant  lies  in  the 
grave  with  him.  A  man  feels  particularly 
vulnerable   when   the    long-looked-for   "ieare- 


114  The  Terror  By  Night 

warrant"  is  in  his  pocket.  He  does  not  fear 
death  after  "leave,"  but  he  does  on  the  eve  of 
"leave."  He  wants  one  more  look  at  his  home 
and  loved  ones  before  going  on  the  long  and 
lone  journey  which,  despite  all  the  comfort 
which  the  Christian  religion  gives,  still  retains 
much  of  its  terror  to  the  human  spirit.  There 
have  been  few  better  Christians  than  Samuel 
Johnson  and  John  Bunyan,  but  neither  of  them 
could  contemplate  fording  the  river  of  death 
without  misgivings.  When  they  came  to  it  they 
found  it  much  less  formidable  than  they  had 
expected.  Had  they  been  at  the  Front  with 
"leave-warrants"  in  their  pockets  to  "Fleet 
Street,  London,"  or  "Elstow,  Bedford,"  I 
fancy  neither  of  them  would  have  taken  undue 
risks. 

I  could  sympathize  with  the  young  lieutenant 
for,  a  few  months  before,  a  "leave-warrant" 
had  made  a  bit  of  a  coward  of  myself.  I  was 
in  two  minds  whether  or  not  to  go  up  to  the 
firing  line  to  see  the  men  again  before  shipping 
for  home.  The  "leave-warrant"  was  in  my 
pocket,  and  I  was  to  go  next  morning;  but  the 
doctor's  story  of  my  predecessor  came  to  my 
mind,  and  the  "leave-warrant"  spread  itself  out 
before  the  eyes  of  my  imagination.  I  saw  the 
faces  of  my  wife,  and  mother,  and  dog,  and 
the  faces  of  my  friends.     The  old  home  and 


The  Terror  By  Night  115 

the  green  fields  stretched  out  before  me;  and 
I  decided  to  see  ihem  first  and  the  "boys"  after. 
I  had  just  been  with  my  men,  but  it  was  a  long 
time  since  I  had  been  with  those  at  home.  If 
there  was  a  shell  with  my  name  and  address 
on  it,  I  thought  I  would  make  the  Hun  wait 
till  I  had  been  home,  before  I  let  him  deliver 
it  into  my  hands.  I  think  a  "leave-warrant" 
would  make  a  coward  of  any  man.  At  any 
rate,  the  feeling  is  quite  understood  and  recog- 
nized by  everyone  at  the  Front;  and  this  young 
officer  had  been  sent  down  from  the  trenches 
to  us,  three  days  before  his  train  was  due  to 
start,  so  that  he  might  have  a  better  chance  of 
using  his  "warrant,"  and  at  the  same  time,  feel 
more  at  ease  in  mind. 

I  undressed  and  got  into  bed,  and  lay  read- 
ing by  the  light  of  a  candle  when  the  lieutenant 
came  to  the  tent  door  again.  "It's  no  use, 
Padre,"  he  said,  "I  can't  go  to  bed  yet.  I  feel 
too  uneasy.  I  wish  I  were  on  the  train."  He 
went  back  to  the  bell-tent  he  was  sharing  with 
the  other  chaplain,  and  I  put  out  my  light. 

There  was  the  silence  of  a  summer  evening 
broken,  only  by  the  distant  bursting  of  shells. 
Then,  suddenly,  there  was  a  crash  about  seventy 
yards  from  our  tents,  and  two  more  near  the 
horse-lines.  "To  run  or  not  run?"  that  was 
the  question;  and  my  answer  was  in  the  nega- 


116  The  Terror  By  Night 

tlve.  If  I  ran,  It  was  just  as  likely  that  I 
should  run  into  a  shell,  as  out  of  the  way  of 
one.  On  Easter  Sunday  I  had  seen  three  of 
our  non-commissioned  officers  killed  in  that 
way.  Besides,  I  like  my  bed,  once  I  have  taken 
the  trouble  to  get  into  it.  I  therefore  put  on 
my  steel  helmet  which  I  had  placed  by  the 
bed-side,  and  waited  to  see  what  would  happen. 
(A  steel  helmet  is  a  wonderful  comfort  when 
men  are  under  fire.  We  may  not  have  much 
in  our  heads  but  we  feel  more  anxious  about 
them  than  about  all  the  rest  of  the  body.  The 
helmets  are  heavy  and  uncomfortable  and  we 
don't  like  wearing  them,  but,  nevertheless,  may 
blessings  ever  rest  on  the  head  of  the  man 
who  invented  them.  I  have  seen  scores  of  lives 
saved  by  them,  and  they  have  given  infinite 
comfort  and  assurance  in  trying  moments.) 

A  long  silence  elapsed,  then  the  lieutenant 
appeared  at  the  door  of  the  tent  again. 

"You  haven't  been  here  all  the  time,  have 
you?"  he  asked.  "We  went  down  to  the  old 
trenches  at  the  bottom  of  the  camp;  but  it  is 
rather  cold  and  wearisome  there,  and  I  think 
the  worst  is  over  now.  I'm  just  going  to  take 
another  sip  of  the  'Scotch  wine'  and  then  turn 
in  for  the  night;  but  I'm  not  going  to  un- 
dress." 

Ten  minutes  later  there  was  a  tremendous 


The  Terror  By  Night  117 

crash  as  If  a  star  had  fallen  on  top  of  us. 
There  came  a  blinding  flash  of  light,  a  strong 
smell  of  powder,  and  a  spluttering  of  bullets 
on  the  ground.  That  was  enough  to  get  the 
laziest  man  living  out  of  bed,  and  to  answer 
the  question,  "to  run  or  not  to  run?"  In  the 
affirmative.  I  slipped  on  my  boots  without 
fastening  them,  put  on  my  trench  coat  and  bade 
my  little  tent  a  fond  farewell.  There  were 
some  old  German  gun-pits  close  by,  and  I 
sought  refuge  there.  "Come  in  here,  sir,"  cried 
a  voice,  and  I  found  myself  by  the  side  of  a 
sergeant.  Then  the  cook  ran  in  bare-foot  and 
laughing.  No  one  seemed  to  have  been  hit,  and 
all  had  now  sought  shelter.  We  waited  for 
some  time  and  nothing  further  happened.  The 
night  was  cold  and  I  began  to  shiver  in  my 
pajamas.  So  I  started  to  look  about  for  a 
place  to  sleep  In,  for  a  feeling  of  estrangement 
had  grown  up  between  me  and  the  little  brown 
tent.  There  was  a  path  across  a  shallow  bit 
of  trench,  and  underneath  it  I  found  the  barber, 
lying  comfortably  on  his  bed.  He  invited  me 
in,  and  said  that  I  could  have  the  bed,  and 
he  would  sleep  at  the  side  of  It  on  his  ground- 
sheet.  He  could,  he  said,  sleep  as  soundly  on 
the  ground  as  on  the  bed  of  stretched  sacking. 
I  therefore  returned  to  my  tent  to  get  blankets. 
The  time-fuse  of  a  shell  had  gone  through  the 


118  The  Terror  By  Night 

kitchen  and  rebounded  from  a  beam  on  to  my 
servant,  but  without  doing  him  any  injury  and 
he  proposed  sleeping  there  for  the  night.  He 
only  agreed  to  move  to  some  safer  place,  when 
I  ordered  him  to  do  so.  There  was  no  one 
in  the  bell-tent  so  I  knew  the  occupants  were 
quite  safe  somewhere.  On  striking  a  light  to 
get  my  blankets,  I  noticed  three  small  holes 
in  the  top  of  the  tent,  and  knew  that  shrapnel 
bullets  had  missed  me  only  by  inches.  It  had 
been  a  close  shave  and  it  was  not  inappropriate 
that  I  was  now  going  to  be  the  guest  of  a 
barber. 

The  psychological  effect  was  not  one  I  should 
have  expected.  The  incident  caused  no  shell- 
shock,  and  but  little  immediate  excitement;  so 
I  was  soon  asleep.  All  the  others  were  in  a 
like  case.  The  excitement  came  with  the  morn- 
ing when  we  examined  the  tents  and  the 
ground.  In  the  bell-tent  there  were  ten  shrap- 
nel bullet  holes.  One  had  gone  through  the 
piece  of  wood  on  which  the  officers'  clothing 
had  been  hung,  and  must  have  passed  immedi- 
ately over  the  body  of  the  Baptist  chaplain  as 
he  lay  in  bed.  Others  must  have  passed  equally 
near  the  lieutenant  who  was  not  in  bed,  but, 
standing  up  at  the  time,  fully  dressed.  In  my 
own  little  tent  I  found  eleven  holes  and  they 
were  in  all  parts  of  the  canvas.     Some  of  the 


The  Terror  By  Night  119 

bullets  must  have  gone  in  at  one  side  and  out 
at  the  other,  for  only  five  were  found  em- 
bedded in  the  hard,  chalky  ground.  A  sixth 
had  passed  through  the  box  at  the  bed-head 
and  entered  deeply  into  the  book  I  had  been 
reading.  Outside  the  kitchen,  the  servants 
picked  up  a  lump  of  shell  a  foot  long  and 
three  or  four  inches  wide.  Well  was  it  for 
them  that  the  fragment  fell  outside  the  kitchen 
and  not  inside.  The  ground  around  the  tents 
was  sprinkled  with  shrapnel  bullets  and  bits  of 
shell.  The  shells  which  fell  near  the  horses 
had  burst  on  touching  the  ground,  and  not  like 
ours,  in  the  air.  They  had  dug  deep  holes  in 
the  earth,  and  as  the  horses  were  within  a  few 
yards  of  them,  it  seemed  miraculous  that  none 
was  hurt.  The  transport  had  just  returned 
from  taking  up  the  rations,  and,  as  one  of  the 
drivers  leapt  off  his  horse,  a  bullet  hit  the 
saddle  where  his  leg  had  been  a  second  before. 
Not  a  man  or  horse  received  a  scratch,  although 
the  shells  had  made  a  direct  hit  on  our  camp. 
On  other  occasions  one  shell  has  laid  out  scores 
of  men  and  horses. 

They  say  that  sailors  don't  like  padres  on 
board  ship,  because  they  think  the  latter  bring 
them  bad  luck.  And  most  people  are  a  little 
afraid  of  the  figure  thirteen,  but  though  it  was 
the   thirteenth    of   June    and   there    were   two 


120  The  Terror  By  Night 

padres  in  the  tents,  we  had  the  best  of  what 
is  called  "luck."  So  I  think  we  may  say  it  was 
one  up  for  the  padres.  After  breakfast  we 
^gathered  together  some  of  the  fragments  lying 
around  the  tents,  and  found  the  nose-cap  of  a 
shell  which  had  burst  seventy  yards  away. 
With  these,  and  the  time-fuse  which  hit  my 
servant,  the  other  chaplain  and  I  went  to  a 
battery  and  asked  the  officers  to  tell  us  some- 
thing about  the  gun,  just  as  one  might  take  a 
bone  of  some  extinct  creature  to  a  scientist, 
and  ask  him  to  draw  an  outline  of  the  whole 
animal.  They  told  us  that  the  gun  was  a  long- 
range,  high-velocity,  naval  gun  with  a  possible 
range  of  fifteen  miles.  They  knew  where  it 
was,  but  could  not  hit  it.  The  shot  was  a 
large  high-explosive,  shrapnel  shell,  and  the 
time-fuse  indicated  that  it  had  come  to  us  from 
about  eleven  miles  away. 

On  our  return  we  built  ourselves  dug-outs 
for  the  nights,  and  only  lived  in  the  tents  by 
day.  Sometimes  we  were  shelled  in  the  day- 
time, but  by  taking  cover  took  no  hurt,  though 
a  lad  in  the  transport  next  to  us  was  seri- 
ously wounded.  When  they  were  shelling  us 
by  day,  we  could  distinctly  hear  the  report 
of  the  gun,  a  second  or  two  later,  see  the  shell 
burst  in  the  air;  and  a  second  later  still,  we 
could  hear  it.  We  saw  the  burst  before  we 
heard  it. 


The  Terror  By  Night  121 

I  have  given  this  personal  incident  not,  I 
hope,  out  of  any  impulse  of  egotism,  but  be- 
cause it  furnishes  those  who  have  not  been  at 
the  Front  with  an  idea  of  the  terror  which 
assails  our  men  by  night,  both  in  the  trenches 
and  in  the  "back  areas."  There  can  be  but 
few  who,  having  been  any  length  of  time  at 
the  Front,  have  not  had  similar  experiences 
and  equally  narrow  escapes.  They  are  so  com- 
mon that  men  get  used  to  them  and  do  not 
take  nearly  enough  care  to  protect  themselves. 
Loss  by  such  stray  shells  is  expected,  and  the 
soldiers  regard  it  much  as  a  tradesman  regards 
the  deterioration  of  his  stock.  One  gets  used 
to  the  frequent  occurrence  of  death  as  he  does 
to  anything  else.  At  home  there  are  thousands 
of  preventable  deaths — deaths  through  street 
accidents,  diseases  and  underfeeding.  The 
number  could  be  enormously  reduced  if  the 
nation  would  rouse  itself.  And  human  nature 
is  much  the  same  at  the  Front.  Men  prefer 
ease  and  comfort  to  safety.  Also,  men  grow 
fatalistic.  They  have  seen  men  sought  out  by 
shells  after  they  have  taken  every  precaution 
to  escape  them;  and  they  have  seen  others  go 
untouched  when  they  seemed  to  be  inviting 
shells  to  destroy  them.  Men  are  conscious  of 
a  Power  that  is  not  themselves  directing  their 
lives.  They  feel  that  in  life  which  the  Greek 
tragedians   called   Fate.      They   do   not  know 


122  The  Terror  By  Night 

quite  what  to  call  it.  Most  of  them  would  call 
it  Providence  if  they  spoke  frankly  and  gave 
it  a  name  at  all.  One  of  the  finest  Christian 
officers  I  know  told  me  that  he  believed  that 
God's  finger  had  already  written  what  his  fate 
should  be.  If  he  had  to  die  nothing  could  save 
him,  and  if  he  had  to  live,  nothing  could  kill 
him.  All  he  was  concerned  with  was  to  be  able 
to  do  his  duty,  and  take  whatever  God  sent 
him.  This,  he  said,  was  the  only  suitable  work- 
ing philosophy  for  a  man  at  the  Front. 

There  is  a  widespread  fatalism  at  the  Front, 
but  it  is  the  fatalism  of  Christ  rather  than  of 
old  Omar  Khayyam:  "Take  no  thought  for 
your  life  .  .  .  for  your  heavenly  Father  know- 
eth  that  ye  have  need  of  all  these  things,  but 
seek  ye  first  the  kingdom  of  God,  and  his 
righteouness.  Take  therefore  no  thought  for 
the  morrow;  for  the  morrow  shall  take  thought 
for  the  things  of  itself.  Sufficient  unto  the  day 
is  the  evil  thereof."  And  this  works.  It 
enables  men  to  "put  a  cheerful  courage  on" 
and  do  their  duty.  There  is  none  of  the 
paralysis  of  will  and  cessation  of  effort  which 
follows  the  fatalistic  philosophy  of  the  East. 
All  that  Omar  Khayyam's  fatalism  leaves  a 
man  to  strive  after  is  "Red,  Red  Wine,"  in 
which  he  drowns  memory,  honor  and  reputa- 
tion and  character.    When  he  has  passed  fronn 


The  Terror  By  Night  123 

among  his  peers,  there  is  nothing  left  to  re- 
member him  by  but  a  "turned-down  empty 
glass."  The  Christian  fatalism  at  the  Front 
destroys  no  man's  initiative,  but  keeps  him 
merry  and  bright,  and  helps  him  to  "do  his 
bit."  When  he  shall  pass  from  the  banquet- 
ing-house  of  life,  into  the  Great  Unexplored, 
he  will  leave  as  his  memorial,  not  a  turned- 
down  glass,  but  a  world  redeemed  from  tyranny 
and  wrong. 


X 

"ETON  BOYS  NEVER  DUCK" 

AN  army  is  more  courageous  than  the  in- 
dividuals who  compose  it.  The  coward 
finds  sufficient  courage  for  his  job 
while  doing  it  with  his  regiment,  and  the  brave 
is  at  his  bravest.  He  has  a  courage  which  is 
not  his  own  but  which,  somehow,  he  puts  on 
with  his  uniform.  He  does  deeds  of  daring 
he  could  not  have  done  as  a  civilian.  The 
army  has  a  corporate  courage  and  each  soldier 
receives  a  portion  of  it  just  as  he  receives  a 
ration  of  the  army's  food.  It  is  added  to  what 
he  has  of  his  own. 

The  badge  of  the  army  is  courage.  When 
a  recruit  joins  the  army  he  knows  that  he  is 
putting  away  the  civilian  standard  of  courage 
with  his  derby  hat,  and  is  putting  on  the 
soldier's  standard  of  courage  with  his  uniform. 
His  great  fear  is  that  he  will  not  be  able  to 
live  up  to  it.  He  wonders  if  he  is  made  of 
the  stuff  that  produces  heroes.  He  is  a  mystery 
to  himself  and  has  a  haunting  fear  that  there 
124 


*'Eton  Boys  Never  Duck! "         125 

may  be  a  strain  of  the  coward  in  his  make-up. 
He  wishes  it  were  possible  to  have  a  rehearsal 
for  he  would  rather  die  than  fail  on  the  ap- 
pointed day. 

The  chaplain  fears  that  he  will  faint  and 
become  a  hindrance  instead  of  a  help  when  he 
first  sees  blood  and  torn  limbs  in  the  dressing 
station;  and  the  recruit  is  afraid  of  being  afraid 
in  the  hour  of  battle  and  of  bringing  dishonor 
and  weakness  upon  his  regiment.  He  will  be 
glad  when  the  trial  is  over — when  he  knows 
the  stuff  of  which  nature  has  made  him.  A 
friend  of  mine  told  me  one  day  that  he  was 
walking  over  a  heavily  shelled  field  with  a 
young  aristocrat  of  a  highly  strung  tempera- 
ment. The  man  was  afraid,  but  would  not 
yield  to  his  fear.  His  lips  twitched  and  his 
face  became  drawn  and  white.  His  movements 
were  jerky  but  he  made  no  other  sign.  He 
talked  about  paltry  things  in  which,  at  the 
moment,  he  had  not  the  slightest  interest,  and 
passed  jocular  or  sardonic  remarks  about  the 
things  that  were  happening  around  them.  My 
friend  ducked  his  head  when  a  shell  burst  near 
as  we  all  have  done  often  enough,  but  the 
young  aristocrat  kept  his  head  as  high  and  stiff 
as  if  he  were  being  crowned.  He  held  it  up 
defiantly;  was  it  not  filled  with  the  bluest 
blood  of  England?     The  shells  might  blow  it 


126         "  Eton  Boys  Never  Duck ! " 

off  if  they  liked.  That  was  their  concern,  not 
his,  but  they  should  never  make  him  bow.  His 
fathers  had  fought  on  British  battlefields  for 
centuries,  and  had  never  bowed  their  heads  to 
a  foe,  and  he  would  not  break  the  great  tradi- 
tion. Shells  might  break  his  neck  but  they 
should  never  bend  it.  He  would  face  the 
enemy  with  as  stiff  an  upper-lip  and  as  stiff  a 
neck  as  ever  his  fathers  did.  He  knew  his  per- 
sonal weakness  and  reinforced  his  strength 
with  that  of  his  fathers'.  He  was  not  afraid 
of  death.    He  was  afraid  of  being  afraid. 

My  friend  was  a  coachman's  son  who  by 
courage  and  capacity  of  the  highest  order  had 
won  a  commission.  He  had  no  traditions 
either  to  haunt  or  help  him,  and  he  had  often 
been  tried  in  the  fire  and  knew  his  strength.  He 
was  not  afraid  of  being  afraid.  It  was  natural 
to  duck  when  a  shell  burst  near  and  it  did 
him  no  harm  and  made  no  difference  to  the 
performance  of  his  duties;  so  he  ducked  as  he 
felt  inclined,  and  then  laughed  at  his  nerves 
for  the  tricks  they  were  allowing  the  shells  to 
play  on  them.  But,  knowing  his  companion's 
more  sensitive  nature  and  temperamental  weak- 
ness, he  was  immensely  impressed  by  his  stiff 
neck  and  proudly  erect  head.  He  showed  a 
self-control  which  only  centuries  of  breeding 
could  give.     Here  was  a  hero  indeed.     The 


"  Eton  Boys  Never  Duck !  '*         127 

shells  he  was  defying  were  as  nothing  to  the 
fears  which  haunted  his  imaginative  nature  and 
which,  with  his  back  to  the  wall  of  his  family 
traditions,  he  was  fighting  and  keeping  at  bay. 

My  friend  could  not  refrain  from  compli- 
menting him  on  resisting  the  natural  tendency 
to  duck  the  head  when  a  shell  screamed  above 
them. 

"Eton  boys  never  duck,"  replied  the  young 
aristocrat. 

He  was  an  Eton  boy  and  would  die  rather 
than  fall  short  of  the  Eton  standard.  In  this 
war  hundreds  of  them  have  died  rather  than 
save  themselves  by  something  which  did  not 
measure  up  to  the  Eton  standard.  The  ranks 
of  young  British  aristocrats  have  been  terribly 
thinned  in  this  war  and  I  have  heard  their 
deeds  spoken  of  with  a  reverence  such  as  is 
only  given  to  legendary  heroes.  They  have 
gone  sauntering  over  the  crater-fields  to  their 
deaths  with  the  same  self-mastery  and  outward 
calm  v/hich  the  French  aristocracy  manifested 
as  they  mounted  the  steps  of  the  guillotine  in 
the  Reign  of  Terror.  To  their  own  personal 
courage  was  added  the  courage  of  their  race, 
and  the  accumulation  of  the  centuries. 

We  speak  of  our  new  armies.  There  can  be 
no  "new"  armies  of  Britons.  The  tradition 
of  our  newest  army  goes  back  to  Boadicea. 


128         "Eton  Boys  Never  Duck!" 

Its  forerunners,  without  shields  or  armor,  and 
almost  without  weapons,  dared  the  Romans — 
the  proud  conquerors  of  the  world — to  battle; 
and  gave  them  the  longest  odds  warriors  ever 
gave.  They  knew  they  could  not  win  but  they 
knew  they  could  die.  Dead  warriors  they 
might  become  but  never  living  slaves.  They 
ran  up  Boadicea's  proud  banner  because  they 
knew  that  while  the  Romans  might  soak  it  in 
British  blood,  no  power  on  earth  could  drag 
it  through  the  mire. 

Our  forefathers  crossed  swords  with  Caesar 
and  his  Roman  legions,  and  our  newest  army 
goes  into  battle  with  the  prestige  born  of  two 
thousand  years  of  war.  They  have  a  morale 
that  belongs  to  the  race  in  addition  to  the 
morale  they  possess  as  individuals.  It  is  said 
that  "the  British  do  not  know  when  they  are 
beaten."  How  should  they  know?  They  have 
had  no  teachers.  All  they  know  is  that  if  they 
have  not  gained  the  victory  the  battle  is  not 
ended  and  must  go  on  until  they  pitch  their 
tents  on  the  undisputed  field.  The  German 
Emperor  spreads  out  his  War  Map  but  it 
is  as  undecipherable  as  the  mountains  in  the 
moon  to  our  soldiers.  Tyrants  have  never 
found  them  apt  scholars  at  geography.  They 
prefer  to  make  their  own  maps  even  though 
they  have  no  paint  to  color  them  with  except 


*'Eton  Boys  Never  Duck!"         129 

the  red  blood  in  their  veins.  The  Kaiser  may 
roll  up  his  War  Map  of  Europe;  our  soldiers 
have  no  use  for  it,  and  will  not  commit  to 
memory  its  new  boundaries.  They  feel  in  their 
souls  the  capacity  to  make  a  new  one  more  in 
line  with  their  ideas  of  fair  play. 

"Eton  boys  never  duck."  If  the  muscles  of 
their  necks  show  a  tendency  to  relax  they  call 
to  mind  how  inflexible  their  fathers  have  stood 
in  bygone  days,  and  their  necks  become  stiff 
and  taut  once  more.  Wellington  said  that 
Waterloo  was  won  on  the  playing  fields  of 
Eton.  It  is  still  true  that  "Eton  boys  never 
duck"  to  the  foe;  nor  do  the  soldiers  they  lead. 


XI 

"MISSING" 

THE  word  "Missing"  has  come  to  exer- 
cise an  even  more  terrible  power  over 
the  human  heart  than  the  word  "Death." 
The  latter  kills  the  heart's  joy  and  hope  with 
a  sharp  clean  cut,  but  "Missing"  is  a  clumsy 
stroke  from  the  executioner's  axe.  In  a  few 
cases  the  wounded  victim  is  spared  and  allowed 
to  recover,  but  in  the  majority  of  cases  there 
is  no  reprieve  and  a  second  blow  is  struck  after 
a  period  of  suspense  and  suffering.  A  chaplain 
dreads  the  word.  As  he  opens  his  corre- 
spondence after  a  battle,  it  fixes  him  as  the 
glittering  eye  of  the  Ancient  Mariner  fastened 
the  wedding  guest.  It  leaps  from  the  page 
at  him  with  the  malignant  suddenness  of  a 
serpent.  Wounds  and  death  he  can  explain  to 
relatives,  but  "missing"  is  beyond  explanation. 
No  one  who  has  not  been  at  the  Front  can 
conceive  how  a  lad  can  disappear  and  no  one 
see  what  becomes  him.  A  man  may  read 
graphic  accounts  of  conditions  of  life  in  the 
130 


"Missing"  131 

battle-line,  but  it  is  beyond  his  imagination  to 
visualize  it  with  any  real  approach  to  truth. 
After  the  first  day  of  the  Somme  Campaign 
we  had  hundreds  of  casualties  and  most  of 
them  were  classed  as  "Missing."  The  soldiers 
went  "over  the  top"  and  did  not  return,  and 
no  one  knew  why.  They  were  simply  "miss- 
ing." Why  did  no  one  know  their  fate?  It 
came  about  in  this  way.  The  men  scrambled 
over  the  parapet  and,  forming  in  line,  charged 
across  No  Man's  Land  in  extended  order. 
Some  fell  immediately.  The  wounded  among 
them  got  back  to  the  dressing  station,  and  the 
bodies  of  the  dead  were  found  within  a  few 
days,  at  least.  So  far,  there  are  no  "Missing." 
The  rest  of  the  men  press  on,  some  falling 
at  every  step;  the  line  thins,  and  the  men  get 
separated.  When  a  man  falls  his  neighbor 
cannot  stay  with  him.  He  must  press  on  to  the 
objective,  otherwise.  If  the  unwounded  stayed 
to  succor  the  wounded,  there  would  be  none 
to  continue  the  attack;  and  under  the  hail  of 
shells  and  bullets  sweeping  the  open  ground, 
everyone  would  perish.  The  only  way  to  suc- 
cor the  wounded  Is  to  press  on,  capture  the 
enemy  trench,  and  stop  the  rifle  and  machine- 
gun  fire.  Consequently,  the  man  who  presses 
on  does  not,  as  a  rule,  know  whether  his  com- 
rade fell  dead,  was  wounded,  or  merely  took 


132  "Missing 


to 


cover  in  a  shell  hole.  And  even  though  he 
were  to  know,  he  may  be  killed  himself  later, 
and  his  knowledge  die  with  him. 

If  the  attack  succeeds,  and  the  German  trench 
is  held  by  us,  No  Man's  Land  can  be 
searched.  The  wounded  and  dead  are  found, 
and  but  few  are  reported  "missing."  But  if 
the  attack  fail,  and  the  regiment  has  to  retire 
to  its  own  line,  it  becomes  impossible  for  us 
to  search  that  part  of  No  Man's  Land,  ad- 
joining the  German  trench  (for  there  is  rarely 
any  truce  after  a  battle  in  this  war),  and  so, 
it  is  impossible  to  find  out  whether  those  who 
have  failed  to  return  were  killed,  wounded,  or 
taken  prisoners.  The  comrades  who  saw  them, 
fall  are  probably  killed,  for  the  return  is  as 
fatal  as  the  attack.  If  they  come  back  wounded 
they  are  taken  straight  to  the  hospitals  and  so 
have  no  chance  of  reporting  to  their  officers 
the  fate  of  those  whom  they  saw  fall.  Only 
the  unwounded  return  to  the  regiment  and,  in 
a  lost  battle,  these  are  few  and  know  but  little 
of  what  happened  to  those  around  them.  They 
were  excited  and  were  fighting  for  their  lives. 
They  had  no  leisure  to  observe  the  fate  of 
others. 

On  one  occasion  our  men  took  some  German 
trenches  opposite  them  and  held  them  for 
some  hours  by  desperate  fighting,  but  before 


"Missing"  133 

dusk  had  to  retire.  Many  were  left  dead  or 
wounded  in  the  captured  trenches,  and  many- 
fell  on  the  return  journey.  The  few  who  got 
back  to  us  unwounded  could  give  very  little 
information  about  individuals  who  were  miss- 
ing. They  had  been  separated  one  from  an- 
other and  fighting  hour  after  hour  with  des- 
peration. All  therefore  who  did  not  return 
to  the  regiment  or  dressing  station,  and  whose 
bodies  were  not  recovered,  were  reported  as 
"Missing"  unless  declared  dead  by  reliable 
eye-witnesses.  The  evidence  of  eye-witnesses 
must  be  carefully  examined  before  a  regiment 
dare  report  a  soldier  dead  on  the  strength  of 
it.  During  an  attack  a  man  is  in  an  abnormal 
state  of  excitement  and  the  observations  of 
his  senses  are  not  entirely  reliable.  Men 
imagine  they  see  things,  and  frequently  make 
mistakes  in  identity.  I  have  known  many  cases 
in  which  a  man  has  sworn  that  he  saw  another 
being  carried  to  the  dressing  station,  yet  the 
missing  man's  body  has  afterwards  been  found 
near  the  German  lines.  The  eye-witness 
simply  mistook  one  man  for  another.  No  end 
of  pain  to  relatives  has  been  caused  by  these 
mistakes  and  a  regiment  rightly  declines  on 
such  evidence  to  report  a  soldier  as  killed. 

Some  weeks  after  the  attack  just  referred  to, 
we  received  letters  from  some  of  the  officers 


134  "Missing" 

and  men  who  had  been  taken  prisoners;  in- 
formation about  others  came  through  The 
Geneva  Red  Cross  Society.  Those  of  whom 
we  heard  nothing  for  six  months  we  knew  to 
be,  in  all  probability,  dead.  Nine  months  later, 
the  Germans  retired  from  the  position,  and 
many  of  our  dead  were  found  still  lying  out 
in  No  Man's  Land.  Some  were  identified. 
Others  could  not  be,  their  discs  having  per- 
ished by  reason  of  the  long  exposure.  Many 
of  the  dead  had  been  left  in  the  German 
trenches.  These  had  been  buried  by  the  enemy 
and  he  had  left  no  crosses  to  mark  the  graves. 
After  more  than  a  year  there  is  no  direct 
evidence  of  the  death  of  many  who  fought 
on  that  day.  They  are  "Missing,"  and  we  can 
only  conclude  that  they  were  killed. 

In  other  cases,  men  are  reported  missing  for 
several  weeks,  and  then  reported  dead.  A 
typical  case  may  be  cited  to  show  how  it  comes 
about.  We  attacked  one  morning  at  dawn. 
The  enemy  were  on  the  run,  and  in  a  state  of 
exhaustion.  An  immediate  attack  would,  it 
was  believed,  carry  the  position  without  much 
loss  of  life,  even  though  our  big  guns  had  not 
had  time  to  come  up  in  support.  Unfortunately 
the  Germans  were,  unknown  to  us,  reinforced 
during  the  night.  Their  new  troops  met  our 
men  with  a  hail  of  rifle  and  machine-gun  fire, 


"Missing"  135 

and  the  regiment  was  ordered  to  retire. 
Several  failed  to  return.  We  knew  that  some 
of  the  men  had  been  forced  to  surrender, 
especially  the  wounded.  Others  had  been 
killed.  Those  who  returned  unwounded  were 
not  able,  however,  to  give  us  the  names  of 
those  who  had  been  killed  or  of  those  who  had 
been  taken  prisoners.  The  attack  had  been 
made  In  the  half-light  of  dawn  so  that  our  men 
could  not  be  seen  distinctly.  They  had  also 
advanced  in  extended  order  so  as  to  avoid 
making  themselves  an  easy  target.  The  half- 
light  and  the  distance  of  one  man  from  another 
made  It  difficult,  therefore,  for  anyone  to  see 
either  who  fell  or  why  they  fell.  Most  of 
those  who  were  killed  or  taken  prisoners  were 
therefore   reported  as   "missing." 

A  few  days  later  the  whole  Division  was 
moved  to  another  part  of  the  Front.  A  fresh 
regiment  took  our  place,  and,  a  few  weeks 
later,  with  adequate  artillery  support,  carried 
the  German  trenches.  After  the  battle,  burial 
parties  were  sent  out  by  the  regiment  to  bury 
both  Its  own  dead  and  ours  who  had  been  left 
in  the  German  half  of  No  Man's  Land. 
Each  grave  was  marked  with  the  soldier's 
name,  and  his  disc  and  paybook  were  sent  to 
our  regiment  as  proof  of  his  death.  The  War 
Office  was  then  Informed  that  such  and  such  a 


136  "Missing" 

man  "previously  reported  missing,  is  now  re- 
ported killed." 

There  are,  however,  cases  of  missing  men 
which  cannot  be  explained.  The  facts  never 
come  to  light,  and  we  can  only  guess  what  hap- 
pened. They  may  have  been  burled  by  the 
enemy,  or  they  may  have  been  buried  in  the 
dark  by  some  regimental  burial  party  which 
could  not  find  their  discs.  They  may  even  have 
been  buried  by  a  shell  or  blown  to  fragments 
by  a  direct  hit.     We  have  no  evidence. 

After  the  attack  on  Gommecourt  a  youth  I 
knew  had  his  wound  dressed  at  the  Regimental 
Aid  post  and  was  seen,  by  more  than  one  of 
his  chums,  passing  down  the  communication 
trench  to  the  Advanced  Dressing  Station  where 
I  happened  to  be.  Yet  he  never  arrived,  slight 
though  his  wound  was.  It  was  Impossible  for 
him  to  have  got  lost.  His  brother  and  I  made 
every  possible  enquiry  about  him,  but  nothing 
ever  came  to  light,  and  we  both  came  to  the 
conclusion  that  on  his  way  down  the  trench 
he  had  been  buried  by  a  shell.  In  another 
case  an  officer  was  wounded  and  four  stretcher 
bearers  went  out  to  bring  him  in.  None  were 
ever  seen  again,  and  later,  when  we  came  into 
possession  of  the  ground,  the  body  of  none 
of  them  were  found.  It  was  scarcely  possible 
for  them   to  have  been  taken  prisoners,   and 


"Missing"  137 

they  were  never  reported  as  having  been  cap- 
tured. We  concluded,  therefore,  that  a  shell 
had  both  killed  and  buried  them. 

One  day  a  rifleman  reported  sick  to  the 
Doctor  and  was  sent  down  the  line  to  the 
Dressing  Station  whence  he  would  be  sent  on 
to  a  Rest  Camp,  He  was  not  seriously  ill, 
and  needed  no  escort.  It  was  impossible  for 
him  to  have  wandered  into  the  German  lines, 
yet  he  never  reported  at  the  Dressing  Station 
or  anywhere  else.  Loss  of  memory  is  very 
rare,  but  even  if  that  had  happened  to  him, 
he  could  not  have  wandered  about  behind  our 
lines  without  being  found  and  arrested.  No 
report  of  his  burial  ever  reached  us  and  we 
were  led  to  the  conclusion  that  he  was  killed 
by  a  shell  on  the  way  down,  and  In  such  a  way 
that  all  means  of  identification  were  lost.  In 
another  case  a  private,  wounded  in  the  arm, 
was  sent  down  the  line  in  company  with  a 
party  of  stretcher  bearers  who  were  carrying 
a  "lying  case."  Evidently  he  got  separated 
from  them  in  the  dark,  and  was  hit  by  a  shell, 
for  he  never  reached  any  dressing  station,  and 
his  fate  was  never  known. 

Conditions  at  the  front  are  such  that  these 
mysterious  disappearances  must  inevitably  oc- 
cur. Every  possible  arrangement  which  cir- 
cumstances will  allow  is  made  to  prevent  them; 


138  "Missing" 

but  they  cannot  be  altogether  eliminated. 
People  at  home  may  sometimes  think  that  more 
might  have  been  done,  but  it  is  because  they 
have  no  conception  of  the  amazing  conditions 
under  which  the  war  is  carried  on.  Every 
officer  and  private  knows  that  he  may  disap- 
pear without  leaving  a  trace.  That  being  so, 
they,  if  only  from  common  prudence  and  the 
instinct  of  self-preservation,  combine  to  reduce 
the  danger  to  its  lowest  limits;  but,  when  all 
has  been  done,  war  is  war;  and  nothing  can 
rob  it  of  its  horrors. 

Every  day,  officers  and  men  die  in  trying  to 
save  their  comrades,  and  nothing  could  be  more 
unjust  than  to  blame  those  who  survive  for 
not  having  done  more  to  prevent  others  from 
being  lost;  for  those  who  are  surviving,  to-day, 
may  become  missing  to-morrow,  and  leave  no 
trace  behind.  Officers  have  sometimes  shown 
me  letters  from  poor  distracted  relatives  which 
could  never  have  been  written  if  they  could 
have  imagined  the  deadly  peril  in  which  the 
officers  stood  and  the  manifold  distractions 
that  wore  them  down.  Sometimes  an  officer's 
letter  is  short  and  business-like  in  reply  to  an 
enquiry,  but  it  must  be  remembered  that  his 
first  duty  is  to  the  living.  He  must  hold  the 
line  and  save  his  men;  and  he  has,  despite  the 


"Missing"  139 


tragedy  of  his  position,  to  answer  not  one  en- 
quiry but  scores.  And  before  he  has  finished 
answering  all  the  enquiries,  his  own  parents, 
perhaps,  will  be  making  enquiries  about  his 
own  fate.  Our  officers  are  the  bravest  and 
kindest-hearted  men  that  ever  had  the  lives  of 
others  in  their  keeping;  and  when  the  chaplain 
asks  them  for  details  about  any  missing  or  slain 
soldier,  they  will  go  to  endless  trouble  for  him. 
They  know  what  their  own  death  will  mean 
to  their  parents;  and  the  knowledge  makes  their 
hearts  go  out  in  sympathy  to  the  parents  of 
their  men,  and  it  makes  them  do  all  that  is 
possible  to  prevent  lives  being  lost. 

When  Moses  died  no  man  knew  the  place 
of  his  burial.  It  has  not  been  found  to  this 
day.  We  know  nothing  of  his  last  thoughts 
or  of  the  manner  of  his  death.  His  end  is  a 
perfect  mystery.  But  we  know  that  he  died  in 
the  presence  of  God;  that  God  strengthened 
him  in  the  dread  hour;  and  that  with  His  own 
fingers  He  closed  the  lids  over  the  prophet's 
brave,  tender  eyes.  God  buried  Moses  in  a 
grave  dug  by  His  own  hands  and  He  will  know 
where  to  find  the  poor  worn-out  body  of  the 
great  patriot  at  the  resurrection  of  the  just. 
And  God  was  with  every  one  of  our  missing 
lads  to  the  last,  and  He  knows  the  narrow  bed 


140  "Missing" 

in  which  each  lies  sleeping.  The  grave  may 
have  no  cross  above  it,  but  it  will  often  know 
the  tread  of  an  angel's  feet  as  he  comes  to 
plant  poppies,  primroses  and  daffodils  above 
the  resting-place  of  the  brave. 


XII 
"IT  MUST  BE  SUNDAY" 

THE  Psalmist  of  Israel  tells  us  that  God 
has  "ordained"  the  moon  and  the  stars. 
These  "flaming  fires"  are  "ministers  of 
His  that  do  His  pleasure."  Nor  are  they 
the  only  ones  chosen  from  Nature.  Mungo 
Park,  having  laid  down  in  the  desert  to  die, 
notices  beside  him  a  tiny  flower,  and  it  awakens 
hope  in  him.  The  winter  of  his  despair  is 
ended.  He  rises  again,  and  pushes  on  until 
he  finds  a  human  habitation  where  he  is  cared 
for  by  native  women  as  though  he  were  their 
brother.  The  little  flower  had  been  "or- 
dained" to  minister  hope  to  a  lost  and  despair- 
ing traveler. 

At  the  Front  such  ministering  by  Nature  is 
of  common  occurrence.  No  Man's  Land  is 
desolate  enough  to  look  upon,  but  there  is  life 
there,  and  music.  Larks  have  chosen  it  for 
their  nests,  and  amid  its  desolation  they  rear 
their  young.  Even  the  pheasants  have  taken 
141 


142  "  It  Must  Be  Sunday  " 

to  some  parts  of  it.  If  we  could  but  know 
the  thoughts  of  the  wounded  who  have  lain 
out  there  waiting  for  death,  we  should  find 
that  the  moon  and  the  stars,  the  birds  and  the 
field  mice,  had  not  allowed  them  die  without 
some  comforting  of  the  spirit. 

One  Sunday  our  regiment  was  resting  in  re- 
serve trenches  after  a  period  in  the  firing  line. 
It  was  a  beautiful  evening,  and  as  the  sun 
sank  westward  I  administered  the  Sacrament 
of  the  Lord's  Supper.  The  day  was  far  spent 
but,  as  the  bread  was  broken,  there  came  to 
us  a  vision  of  the  Face  which  the  two  disciples 
saw  on  another  such  evening  in  the  far-off 
village  of  Emmaus.  On  the  way  back  to  my 
billet  I  met  a  platoon  of  Royal  Engineers  re- 
turning from  the  baths.  One  of  them  had 
been  a  member  of  my  church  in  London,  and 
he  dropped  out  to  talk  with  me.  Those  who 
have  not  been  in  the  Expeditionary  Force  can 
hardly  understand  the  pleasure  a  man  feels 
when  he  meets  someone  he  knew  in  the  days  of 
peace,  or  even  someone  who  knows  the  street 
or  town  out  of  which  he  came.  He  was  full 
of  talk,  and  as  I  listened  his  excitement  and 
pleasure  bubbled   over  like   a   spring. 

"Last  night,"  he  said,  "was  the  night  of 
my  life.  I  never  expected  to  see  daylight 
again.     Talk  about  a  'tight  corner,'  there  was 


"It  Must  Be  Sunday"  143 

never  one  to  match  it,  and  as  you  know,  my 
chums  and  I  have  been  in  many.  The  Huns 
simply  plastered  us  with  shells.  The  bom- 
bardment was  terrific.  It  was  like  being  in  a 
hailstorm  and  we  expected  every  moment  to  be 
our  last. 

"You  know  the  trench  which  the  infantry 
took  yesterday?  Well,  we  were  there.  We 
went  up  at  dark  to  fix  barbed  wire  in  front  of 
it  ready  for  the  counter-attack.  We  were  out 
in  No  Man's  Land  for  about  two  hours,  work- 
ing as  swiftly  and  silently  as  we  could.  When- 
ever the  enemy  sent  his  lights  up,  we  laid  down, 
and  so  far  we  had  escaped  notice  and  were 
congratulating  ourselves  that  the  work  was 
nearly  done,  and  that  our  skins  were  still 
whole.  Then,  somehow,  the  Germans  spotted 
us,  and  let  fly.  It  was  like  hell  let  loose.  We 
ran  to  the  trench  for  shelter,  but  it  seemed  as 
if  nothing  could  save  us  from  such  a  deluge 
of  shells.  It  was  just  like  being  naked  in  a 
driving  snow-storm.  We  felt  as  if  there  was 
no  trench  at  all,  and  as  if  the  gunners  could 
see  us  in  the  dark.  After  that  experience  I 
can  pity  a  hare  with  a  pack  of  hounds  after 
it.  But  we  just  sat  tight  with  such  cover  as 
we  had  and  made  the  best  of  it.  There  was 
nothing  else  to  do.  If  we  were  to  be  killed, 
we  should  be  killed.     Nothing  that  we  could 


144  "It  Must  Be  Sunday" 

do  would  have  made  any  difference.  Yet, 
though  there  didn't  seem  shelter  for  even  a 
mouse,  only  one  of  us  was  hit,  and  that  was 
the  sergeant.  He  was  rather  badly  'done  in,' 
and  we  could  only  save  his  life  by  getting  him 
quickly  to  the  dressing  station. 

"I  am  one  of  the  taller  and  stronger  men 
of  my  platoon  so,  of  course,  I  volunteered  as 
a  stretcher-bearer.  There  was  no  communica- 
tion trench,  so  we  had  no  choice  but  to  lift 
him  up  and  make  a  dash  across  the  open. 
They  were  shelling  us  like  blazes,  but  we  dare 
not  delay  because,  if  we  were  overtaken  by 
daylight,  it  would  be  impossible  to  get  him 
away  till  the  next  night,  and  by  that  time  he 
would  be  dead.  So  we  decided  to  try  our  luck. 
We  had  just  lifted  him  up  when  a  shell  burst 
right  on  top  of  us,  and  knocked  us  all  down. 
For  a  minute  or  two  I  was  unconscious,  and 
when  I  came  round  I  thought  I  must  surely 
be  wounded,  so  I  ran  my  fingers  over  my  body 
but  found  neither  blood  nor  a  rent  in  my 
clothes.  I  was  covered  with  chalk  but  that 
didn't  matter.  Except  for  a  touch  of  concus- 
sion in  the  brain  I  was  none  the  worse,  and 
soon  pulled  myself  together.  The  sergeant 
was  a  sight  I  He  was  half-buried,  and  we 
could  scarce  see  him  for  chalk;  but  we  dug 
him  out  and  got  him  on  the  stretcher  again. 


"It  Must  Be  Sunday"  145 

After  that  we  sat  down  in  the  bottom  of  the 
trench  till  the  effect  of  the  shock  had  worn 
off  a  bit,  for  we  all  felt  like  rats  that  had  been 
shaken  by  a  terrier. 

"Then,  as  suddenly  as  it  had  started,  the 
shelling  stopped.  The  calm  that  followed  was 
wonderful.  I  never  felt  anything  so  restful  be- 
fore. It  was  like  the  delicious  restfulness  that, 
sometimes,  immediately  follows  hours  of  fever. 
Then,  as  if  to  make  it  perfect,  a  lark  rose  out 
of  No  Man's  Land  and  began  to  sing.  The 
effect  on  us  was  magical.  It  was  the  sweetest 
music  I  have  ever  heard,  and  I  shall  remember 
it  to  my  dying  day.  The  countryside  was  dark 
and  silent,  and,  as  I  listened  to  the  lark,  old 
days  came  back  to  mind.  You  remember  that 
Saturday  midnight  in  the  June  before  the  war 
when  you  took  us  into  Epping  Forest  to  sec 
the  dawn  break  over  it?  Well,  as  I  listened 
to  the  lark,  I  was  back  there  in  the  forest. 
Then  some  impulse  seized  me  and,  hardly 
knowing  what  I  did,  I  cried  aloud,  'Why  bless 
me,  it  must  be  Sunday,'  and  so  it  was,  although 
I  had  forgotten. 

"Then  we  jumped  up  for  we  saw  that  the 
dawn  was  breaking  and,  lifting  the  sergeant 
out  of  the  trench,  we  rushed  across  the  open 
ground  in  the  direction  of  the  dressing  station. 
Talk  about  'feeling  protected!'     Why,  I  felt 


146  "It  Must  Be  Sunday" 

that  God  was  all  around  us — that  no  harm 
could  touch  us.  A  great  calm  stole  over  me, 
and  I  felt  utterly  devoid  of  fear.  We  had, 
as  you  know,  to  bring  the  sergeant  some  two 
miles  to  the  dressing  station,  just  down  the 
road  there,  but  we  got  him  safely  in,  and  I 
think  he  will  get  better." 

While  we  were  talking,  a  shell  burst  near 
the  trench  where  my  men  had  been  taking  of 
the  Sacrament,  and  another  burst  by  the  road- 
side close  to  the  Engineers.  With  a  laugh 
and  a  hearty  "Good-night"  he  shook  hands, 
saluted,  and  ran  on  to  rejoin  his  comrades. 
The  shells  were  part  of  the  game.  In  London 
we  had  been  in  the  same  football  team.  He 
had  kept  goal  and  I  had  played  full  back,  and 
he  regarded  the  shells  that  had  fallen  as  bad 
shots  at  goal  made  by  the  opposing  team. 
They  might  have  been  serious  but,  as  it  hap- 
pened, the  ball  had  each  time  gone  out  of 
play. 

I  waited  a  minute  or  two  in  the  hope  of 
getting  a  lift.  A  motor  car  came  along;  I 
stopped  It  and  got  in;  for  at  the  Front  every- 
thing is  Government  property  and  more  or 
less  at  one's  service.  I  found  myself  sitting 
by  the  side  of  a  private,  who  had  been  wounded 
In  the  face  and  right  hand  by  the  shell  that 
had  just  fallen  near  the  platoon  of  Engineers. 


"It  Must  Be  Sunday"  147 

He  had  left  his  horse  with  a  comrade,  and 
was  being  driven  to  the  Advanced  Dressing 
Station  by  a  driver  who,  happening  to  pass  at 
the  moment,  had  kindly  offered  him  a  lift. 
After  a  little  wait  at  the  Dressing  Station  I 
got  on  the  front  of  an  ambulance  car.  There 
were  only  two  cases  inside,  and  they  were  being 
taken  to  the  Main  Dressing  Station  in  Arras. 
One  of  them  had  his  feet  and  arms  tied  to 
the  stretcher,  for  he  was  suffering  from  shell- 
shock;  and  three  orderlies  were  in  charge  of 
him.  The  poor  fellow  laughed  and  cried  al- 
ternately and  struggled  to  break  loose.  "I'm 
a  British  soldier,"  he  cried,  "and  I  will  not 
be  tied  up.  I've  done  my  bit,  and  this  is  the 
way  you  pay  me  out.  I'll  not  have  it."  And 
time  and  again  he  struggled  desperately  to 
break  away. 

The  orderlies  In  charge  of  him  were  wise  and 
tactful  as  women.  They  asked  him  questions 
about  the  fight,  and  he  fought  his  battle  over 
again.  They  praised  his  regiment  and  told  him 
it  had  done  magnificently,  and  he  laughed  and 
chuckled  like  a  young  mother,  dangling  her 
first  baby  on  her  knee.  And  so,  without  mis- 
hap, we  reached  the  ruined  town  of  Arras 
where  nightly  the  shells  fall  among  the  for- 
saken houses  In  which  our  soldiers  are  billeted. 
The  wounded  private  was  carried  into  the  hos- 


148  "It  Must  Be  Sunday" 

pital,  and  I  walked  away  to  my  room  in  an 
adjoining  street. 

So  ended  the  day  which,  in  the  hour  of 
dawn,  the  dark  had  told  the  young  engineer 
"must  be  Sunday." 


XIII 
OUR  TOMMIES  NEVER  FAIL  US 

ON  Easter  Monday,  in  the  Battle  of 
Arras,  I  saw  two  sights  such  as  I  shall 
never  forget.  One  revealed  the  kind 
and  forgiving  spirit  of  our  men,  the  other  their 
unflinching  courage.  After  burying  three  non- 
commissioned officers  who  had  been  killed  the 
day  before,  I  reached  the  Advanced  Dressing 
Station  near  which  our  regiment  was  "standing 
to"  in  a  support  trench.  Other  regiments  of 
our  Division  were  carrying  out  the  attack  and, 
with  small  loss,  had  taken  the  enemy  lines. 
The  German  trenches  had  been  blotted  out  by 
our  shells  but  their  deep  dug-outs,  with 
machine-guns  at  their  mouths,  remained  un- 
touched, and  it  was  almost  impossible  for  our 
soldiers  to  discover  them  until  they  got  within 
a  few  yards  of  the  entrances. 

The  German  commander's  idea  was  to  keep 

his  men  in  the   shelter  of  the  dug-outs  until 

our  barrage  lifted.     They  were  then  to  rush 

out  with  machine-guns  and  rifles  to  destroy  our 

149 


150       Our  Tommies  Never  Fail  Us 

men  who  were  following  it  up.  If  the  idea 
had  been  carried  out,  the  German  line  would 
have  been  impregnable  for  our  men  would 
have  been  mown  down  like  corn  before  the 
reaper.  It  failed  because  German  human 
nature  could  not  rise  to  the  occasion.  The 
German  soldiers  had  been  demorahzed  by  the 
safety  of  the  dug-outs  and  by  the  thunder  of 
our  shells  above  them.  They  cowered  in  the 
dug-outs  when  they  should  have  rushed  out. 
The  critical  moment  passed,  and  with  its  pass- 
ing our  soldiers  leapt  to  the  entrances  and 
threw  down  hand  grenades.  There  was  a  wild 
cry  of  pain  and  fear  from  below.  Arms  went 
up  and  the  cry  of  "Kamerad."  The  sur- 
render was  accepted  and  the  beaten  soldiers 
crawled  out.  From  some  dug-outs  as  many  as 
two  hundred  prisoners  were  taken.  In  other 
parts  of  the  line  there  was  a  stiff  fight,  but,  on 
the  whole,  our  casualties  were  very  light. 
From  my  own  observation  I  should  say  that 
we  took  more  prisoners  than  we  suffered  casual- 
ties. Some  companies  could  boast  a  prisoner 
for  each  man  engaged  in  the  attack,  ! 

The  Advanced  Dressing  Station  was  at  the 
corner  of  Cross  Roads  and  the  sight  around 
it  was  wonderful  to  behold,  A  crowd  of 
prisoners  was  assembling  ready  to  be  marched 
to  the  cages,  and  wounded  officers  and  men, 


Our  Tommies  Never  Fail  Us       151 

British  and  German,  were  being  bandaged. 
The  prisoners  were  hungry.  For  some  days 
our  artillery  had  cut  off  their  rations.  A 
platoon  of  our  soldiers  came  marching  by,  and, 
to  save  time,  eating  their  breakfasts  as  they 
passed  along.  The  prisoners  looked  at  them 
with  hungry  eyes.  Our  men  saw  the  look  and 
stopped.  Breaking  rank  for  a  moment  they 
passed  in  and  out  among  the  prisoners  and 
shared  out  their  rations.  "Here,  Fritzy,  old 
boy,  take  this,"  I  heard  all  around  me,  and 
Fritz  did  not  need  asking  twice.  He  took  the 
biscuits  and  cheese  gratefully  and  eagerly. 
The  look  of  trouble  passed  out  of  his  eyes  and 
he  felt  that  he  had  found  friends  where  he 
had  only  expected  to  find  enemies.  He  began 
to  hope  for  kindness  in  his  captivity.  The 
scene  was  one  of  pure  goodwill. 

Scarcely  ever  have  I  seen  a  crowd  so  happy. 
Our  Tommies  laughed  and  cracked  jokes  which 
no  German  could  understand,  but  I  heard  not 
a  single  taunt  or  bitter  word.  In  fact,  Fritz 
was  treated  more  like  a  pet  than  a  prisoner. 
One  who  had  worked  in  London,  and  who 
spoke  English,  asked  me  for  a  cup  of  tea  for 
a  comrade  who  was  slightly  wounded,  and  I 
got  one  in  the  dressing  station.  The  platoon 
of  Tommies  re-formed  and  marched  away  to 
the  battle   and  the  prisoners  were  led  off  to 


152        Our  Tommies  Never  Fail  Us 

the  cages.  There  were  still  large  numbers  of 
prisoners  on  the  road,  and  they  were  moving 
about  without  guards.  Many  of  them  were 
being  used  as  stretcher-bearers  and  they  seemed 
to  do  their  work  out  of  goodv/ill  and  not  of 
constraint. 

Their  assistance  was  of  great  help  to  the 
wounded.  The  battle  was  going  well  with  us. 
Everyone  felt  in  good  heart  and  kindly  dis- 
posed. An  officer  who  lay  seriously  wounded 
and  waiting  for  a  car  told  me  of  the  splendid 
work  which  his  regiment  had  done.  His  eyes 
shone  with  suppressed  excitement  and  pride  as 
he  told  the  story.  While  he  was  speaking  two 
soldiers  came  limping  down  the  road  and  their 
appearance  was  greeted  with  a  burst  of 
laughter.  One  was  English,  the  other  German. 
Tommy  had  his  arm  round  the  German's  neck 
and  was  leaning  on  him  while  Fritz,  with  his 
arm  round  the  lad's  waist,  helped  him  along. 
They  came  along  very  slowly  for  both  were 
wounded,  but  they  laughed  and  talked  together 
like  long-lost  brothers.  Yet  neither  could  un- 
derstand a  word  the  other  said. 

I  passed  down  the  road  towards  the  line. 
Gunners  of  the  Territorials  were  hurriedly 
hitching  their  guns  to  the  horses  ready  to  ad- 
vance to  new  positions.  In  the  ruined  village 
a  party  of  engineers  was  already  unloading  a 


Our  Tommies  Never  Fail  Us        153 

wagon  of  rails  with  which  to  build  a  light  rail- 
way. I  continued  along  the  road  towards  the 
next  village.  It  had  just  fallen  into  our  hands 
and  not  one  stone  was  left  on  another.  There 
were  scores  of  wounded  men  hobbling  back 
from  it  and  I  gave  my  arm  to  such  as  needed 
it  most.  A  badly  wounded  Tommy  was  being 
brought  along  on  a  wheeler  by  two  orderlies 
and  as  I  helped  them  through  the  traffic  we 
heard  the  heavy  rumble  of  the  advancing  field- 
guns. 

The  road  was  cleared  with  the  quickness  of 
lightning.  Out  of  the  village  the  batteries  burst 
at  a  mad  gallop  and  down  the  road  they  came 
at  break-neck  speed.  With  the  swiftness  of 
a  fire  engine  in  a  city  street  the  rocking  guns 
swept  past.  The  gunners  clung  to  the  am- 
munition limbers  with  both  hands  and  the 
drivers  whipped  and  spurred  the  excited  foam- 
flecked  horses  as  though  they  were  fiery  beings 
leaping  through  the  air  and  incapable  of  fatigue 
or  weakness.  Suddenly  the  drivers  raised  their 
whips  as  a  sign  to  those  behind,  and  the 
trembling  horses  and  bounding  guns  came  to  a 
dead  halt.  The  leading  gun  had  overturned  at 
a  nasty  place  where  the  road  dipped  down  into 
the  hollow.  The  rest  of  the  batteries  stood 
exposed  on  the  crest  of  the  ridge.  Before  re- 
tiring the  Germans  had  felled  all  the  trees  that 


154        Our  Tommies  Never  Fail  Us 

grew  by  the  roadside  so  that  nothing  might 
obstruct  their  line  of  vision.  Such  a  catas- 
trophe as  this  was  what  the  enemy  had  been 
hoping  for.  The  sun  shone  brilliantly,  and 
our  batteries  were  a  direct  target  for  the  Ger- 
man gunners  such  as  seldom  occurs.  Our  boys 
were  caught  like  rats  in  a  trap.  By  the  side 
of  the  road  ran  a  shallow  trench  and  near  us 
two  broad  steps  into  it.  We  laid  the  wounded 
lad  in  the  bottom  of  the  trench  and  sat  down 
by  his  side.  Shells  were  falling  all  around  and 
fountains  of  dirt  and  debris  rose  into  the  air 
and,  on  five  or  six  occasions,  covered  us  with 
their  spray. 

I  covered  the  lad's  face.  He  was  barely  con- 
scious and  uttered  no  word.  It  seemed  as  if 
nothing  could  live  in  such  a  bombardment.  A 
shell  burst  near,  and  the  cry  of  dying  horses 
rent  the  air.  The  traces  were  cut  and  the 
horses  and  gun-carriage  drawn  off  the  road. 
Every  second  I  expected  to  see  the  horses  and 
drivers  in  front  of  me  blown  into  the  air  and 
I  watched  them  with  fascinated  eyes.  Not  a 
man  stirred.  They  sat  on  their  horses  and  gun- 
carriages  as  though  they  were  figures  in  bronze. 
Not  a  man  sought  the  trench  and  not  a  man 
relieved  the  tension  by  going  forward  to  see 
what  was  wrong  or  to  lend  a  hand.  Each 
knew  his   place,    and   if   death   sought   him   it 


Our  Tommies  Never  Fail  Us        155 

would  know  where  to  find  him.  The  horses 
felt  that  they  had  brave  men  on  their  backs 
and,  in  that  mysterious  way  peculiar  to  horses, 
caught  the  spirit  of  their  riders.  Every  shell 
covered  men  and  horses  with  chalk  and  soil, 
but  they  remained  an  immobile  as  statuary.  It 
was  magnificent  and  It  was  war.  A  driver  in 
the  battery  beside  us  got  wounded  in  the  leg 
and  hand.  He  jumped  off  his  horse  and  came 
to  us  to  be  bandaged.  Then  he  leapt  back  Into 
the  saddle.  It  seemed  an  age,  but  I  suppose 
it  was  only  a  few  minutes,  before  the  obstruc- 
tion was  removed.  The  whips  flashed  in  the 
air  and  the  horses  sprang  forward.  The  guns 
rocked  and  swayed  as  they  swept  past  us  and 
within  a  few  minutes  they  were  in  their  new 
positions  under  the  hill  upon  which  lay  the 
ruins  of  Neuville  Vitasse. 

The  shelling  ceased  as  suddenly  as  it  had 
started  and  we  lifted  out  our  wounded  soldier 
and  went  In  the  direction  of  the  dressing  sta- 
tion. Some  distance  up  the  road  my  attention 
was  called  to  one  of  the  drivers  whom  the 
artillery  had  left  in  the  care  of  some  privates. 
He  was  living,  but  his  skull  was  broken,  and 
he  would  never  wake  again  to  consciousness. 
He  was  fast  "going  West."  His  day  was  over 
and  his  work  was  done.  I  got  him  lifted  on 
to  a  stretcher  and  taken  to  the  dressing  station 


156        Our  Tommies  Never  Fail  Us 

so  that  he  might  die  in  peace  and  be  buried 
in  the  little  soldiers'  cemetery  behind  it. 

When  I  returned  in  the  evening  to  our  billet 
I  told  the  transport  officer  of  the  magnificent 
bravery  of  the  artillery  drivers. 

"Any  other  drivers  would  behave  just  as 
well,  if  caught  in  the  same  trap,"  he  replied. 

He  spoke  the  simple  truth.  They  would. 
Such  supreme  courage  and  devotion  to  duty  are 
common  to  the  army.  Their  presence  among 
all  ranks  and  in  all  sections  of  the  army  makes 
the  fact  the  more  wonderful.  Both  officers  and 
men  love  life,  but  they  love  duty  more,  and 
commanders  in  drawing  up  their  plans  know 
that  they  can  rely  on  their  soldiers  to  carry 
them  out.  Our  Tommies  never  fail  us  whether 
in  France,  Mesopotamia,  or  Palestine.  Devo- 
tion to  duty  is  inwoven  with  the  fibers  of  their 
hearts.  They  are  men  who,  either  In  kindness 
to  captives  or  courage  amid  disaster  and  de- 
struction, never  fail  us, 


XIV 
THE  CROSS  AT  NEUVE  CHAPELLE 

THE  war  on  the  Western  Front  has  been 
fought  in  a  Roman  CathoHc  country 
v/here  crucifixes  are  erected  at  all  the 
chief  cross-roads  to  remind  us  that,  in  every 
moment  of  doubt  as  to  the  way  of  life,  and 
on  whichever  road  we  finally  decide  to  walk, 
whether  rough  or  smooth,  we  shall  need  the 
Saviour  and  His  redeeming  love.  We  have 
seen  a  cross  so  often  when  on  the  march,  or 
when  passing  down  some  trench,  that  it  has 
become  inextricably  mixed  up  with  the  war. 
When  we  think  of  the  great  struggle  the  vision 
of  the  cross  rises  before  us,  and  when  we  see 
the  cross,  we  think  of  processions  of  wounded 
men  who  have  been  broken  to  save  the  world. 
Whenever  we  have  laid  a  martyred  soldier  to 
rest,  we  have  placed  over  him,  as  the  comment 
on  his  death,  a  simple  white  cross  bearing  his 
name.  We  never  paint  any  tribute  on  it. 
None  is  needed,  for  nothing  else  could  speak  so 
eloquently  as  a  cross — a  white  cross.  White 
157 


158       The  Cross  at  Neuve  Chapelle 

is  the  sacred  color  in  the  army  of  to-day,  and 
the  cross  is  the  sacred  form.  In  after  years 
there  will  never  be  any  doubt  as  to  where  the 
line  of  liberty  ran  that  held  back  the  flood  and 
force  of  German  tyranny.  From  the  English 
Channel  to  Switzerland  it  is  marked  for  all 
time  with  the  crosses  on  the  graves  of  the 
British  and  French  soldiers.  Whatever  may 
be  our  views  about  the  erection  of  crucifixes 
by  the  wayside  and  at  the  cross-roads,  no  one 
can  deny  that  they  have  had  an  immense  in- 
fluence for  good  on  our  men  during  the  war 
in  France. 

The  experience  of  many  a  gallant  soldier  is 
expressed  in  the  following  Belgian  poem: 

"I  came  to  a  halt  at  the  bend  of  the   road; 
I  reached  for  my  ration,   and  loosened  my  load; 
I  came  to  a  halt  at  the  bend  of  the  road. 

"O  -weary  the  way,  Lord;  forsaken  of  Thee, 
My  spirit  is  faint — lone,  comfortless  me; 

0  weary  the  way,  Lord ;  forsaken  of  Thee. 

"And  the  Lord  answered.  Son,  be  thy  heart  lifted  up,, 

1  drank,  as  thou  drinkest,  of  agony's  cup; 

And  the  Lord   answered,  Son,  be  thy  heart  lifted  up. 

"For  thee  that  I  loved,  I  went  down  to  the  grave, 
Pay  thou  the  like  forfeit  thy  Country  to  save; 
For  thee  that  I  loved,  I  went  down  to  the  grave. 

"Then  I  cried,  'I  am  Thine,  Lord;  yea,  unto  this  last.' 
And  I  strapped  on  my  knapsack,  and  onward  I  passed. 
Then  I  cried,   'I   am  Thine,  Lord;   yea,   unto  this  last.' 


The  Cross  at  Neuve  Chapelle       159 

"Fulfilled  is  the  sacrifice.     Lord,  is  it  well? 
Be  it  said — for  the  dear  sake  of  country  he  fell. 
Fulfilled  is  the  sacrifice.     Lord,  is  it  well  ?" 

The  Cross  has  interpreted  Hfe  to  the  soldier 
and  has  provided  him  with  the  only  acceptable 
philosophy  of  the  war.  It  has  taught  boys 
just  entering  upon  life's  experience  that,  out- 
topping  all  history  and  standing  out  against 
the  background  of  all  human  life,  is  a  Cross 
on  which  died  the  Son  of  God.  It  has  made 
the  hill  of  Calvary  stand  out  above  all  other 
hills  in  history.  Hannibal,  Caesar,  Napoleon 
— these  may  stand  at  the  foot  of  the  hill,  as 
did  the  Roman  soldiers,  but  they  are  made  to 
look  mean  and  insignificant  as  the  Cross  rises 
above  them,  showing  forth  the  figure  of  the  Son 
of  Man.  Against  the  sky-line  of  human  history 
the  Cross  stands  clearly,  and  all  else  is  in 
shadow.  The  wayside  crosses  at  the  Front  and 
the  flashes  of  roaring  guns  may  not  have  taught 
our  soldiers  much  history,  but  they  have  taught 
them  the  central  fact  of  history;  and  all  else 
will  have  to  accommodate  itself  to  that,  or 
be  disbelieved.  The  Cross  of  Christ  is  the 
center  of  the  picture  for  evermore,  and  the 
grouping  of  all  other  figures  must  be  round  it. 

To  the  soldiers  it  can  never  again  be  made  a 
detail  in  some  other  picture.  Seen  also  in  the 
light  of  their  personal  experience  it  has  taught 


ICO       The  Cross  at  Neuve  Chapelle 

them  that  as  a  cross  hes  at  the  basis  of  the 
world's  hfe  and  shows  bare  at  every  crisis  of 
national  and  international  life  so,  at  the  root 
of  all  individual  life,  is  a  cross.  They  have 
been  taught  to  look  for  it  at  every  parting  of 
the  ways.  Suffering  to  redeem  others  and  make 
others  happy  will  now  be  seen  as  the  true 
aim  of  life  and  not  the  grasping  of  personal 
pleasure  or  profit.  They  have  stood  where 
high  explosive  shells  thresh  out  the  corn  from 
the  chaff — the  true  from  the  false.  They  have 
seen  facts  in  a  light  that  lays  things  stark 
and  bare;  and  the  cant  talked  by  skeptical 
armchair-philosophers  will  move  them  as  little 
as  the  chittering  of  sparrows  on  the  housetops. 
For  three  long  years  our  front-line  trenches 
have  run  through  what  was  once  a  village 
called  Neuve  Chapelle.  There  is  nothing  left 
of  it  now.  But  there  is  something  there  which 
is  tremendously  impressive.  It  is  a  crucifix. 
It  stands  out  above  everything,  for  the  land 
is  quite  flat  around  it.  The  cross  is  immedi- 
ately behind  our  firing  trench,  and  within  two 
or  three  hundred  yards  of  the  German  front 
trench.  The  figure  of  Christ  is  looking  across 
the  waste  of  No  Man's  Land.  Under  His  right 
arm  and  under  His  left,  are  British  soldiers 
holding  the  line.  Two  dud  shells  lie  at  the 
the   foot.      One   is   even   touching   the   wood, 


The  Cross  at  Neuve  Chapelle       161 

but  though  hundreds  of  shells  must  have  swept 
by  it,  and  millions  of  machine-gun  bullets,  it 
remains  undamaged.  Trenches  form  a  laby- 
rinth all  round  it.  When  our  men  awake  and 
"stand-to"  at  dawn  the  first  sight  they  see  is 
the  cross;  and  when  at  night  they  lie  down  in 
the  side  of  the  trench,  or  turn  into  their  dug- 
outs, their  last  sight  is  the  cross.  It  stands 
clear  in  the  noon-day  sun;  and  in  the  moonlight 
it  takes  on  a  solemn  grandeur. 

I  first  saw  it  on  a  November  afternoon  when 
the  sun  was  sinking  under  heavy  banks  of 
cloud,  and  it  bent  my  mind  back  to  the  scene 
as  it  must  have  been  on  the  first  Good  Friday, 
when  the  sun  died  with  its  dying  Lord,  and 
darkness  crept  up  the  hill  of  Calvary  and  cov- 
ered Him  with  its  funeral  pall  to  hide  His 
dying  agonies  from  the  curious  eyes  of  unbe- 
lieving men.  I  had  had  tea  in  a  dug-out,  and 
it  was  dark  when  I  left.  Machine-guns  were 
sweeping  No  Man's  Land  to  brush  back  ene- 
mies that  might  be  creeping  towards  us  through 
the  long  grass;  and  the  air  was  filled  with  a 
million  clear,  cracking  sounds.  Star-shells  rose 
and  fell  and  their  brilliant  lights  lit  up  the 
silent  form  on  the  cross. 

For  three  years,  night  and  day,  Christ  has 
been  standing  there  in  the  midst  of  our  sol- 
diers, with  arms  outstretched  in  blessing.    They 


162       The  Cross  at  Neuve  Chapelle 

have  looked  up  at  Him  through  the  clear  star- 
light of  a  frosty  night;  and  they  have  seen 
His  pale  face  by  the  silver  rays  of  the  moon 
as  she  has  sailed  her  course  through  the 
heavens.  In  the  gloom  of  a  stormy  night  they 
have  seen  the  dark  outline,  and  caught  a  pass- 
ing glimpse  of  Christ's  effigy  by  the  flare 
of  the  star-shells.  What  must  have  been  the 
thoughts  of  the  sentries  in  the  listening  posts 
as  all  night  long  they  have  gazed  at  the  cross; 
or  of  the  officers  as  they  have  passed  down 
the  trench  to  see  that  all  was  well;  or  of  some 
private  sleeping  in  the  trench  and,  being 
awakened  by  the  cold,  taking  a  few  steps  to 
restore  blood-circulation?  Deep  thoughts,  I 
imagine,  much  too  deep  for  words  of  theirs 
or  mine. 

And  when  the  Battle  of  Neuve  Chapelle  was 
raging  and  the  wounded,  whose  blood  was 
turning  red  the  grass,  looked  up  at  Him,  what 
thoughts  must  have  been  theirs  then?  Did 
they  not  feel  that  He  was  their  big  Brother 
and  remember  that  blood  had  flowed  from 
Him  as  from  them;  that  pain  had  racked  Him 
as  it  racked  them;  and  that  He  thought  of 
His  mother  and  of  Nazareth  as  they  thought 
of  their  mother  and  the  little  cottage  they  were 
never  to  see  again?  When  their  throats  be- 
came parched  and  their  lips  swollen  with  thirst 


The  Cross  at  Neuve  Chapelle       163 

did  they  not  remember  how  He,  too,  had  cried 
for  a  drink;  and,  most  of  all,  did  they  not 
call  to  mind  the  fact  that  He  might  have  saved 
Himself,  as  they  might,  if  He  had  cared  more 
for  His  own  happiness  than  for  the  world's? 
As  their  spirits  passed  out  through  the  wounds 
in  their  bodies  would  they  not  ask  Him  to  re- 
member them  as  their  now  homeless  souls 
knocked  at  the  gate  of  His  Kingdom?  He  had 
stood  by  them  all  through  the  long  and  bloody 
battle  while  hurricanes  of  shells  swept  over 
and  around  Him.  I  do  not  wonder  that  the 
men  at  the  Front  flock  to  the  Lord's  Supper 
to  commemorate  His  death.  They  will  not  go 
without  it.  If  the  Sacrament  be  not  provided, 
they  ask  for  it.  At  home  there  was  never  such 
a  demand  for  it  as  exists  at  the  Front.  There 
is  a  mystic  sympathy  between  the  trench  and  the 
Cross,  between  the  soldier  and  his  Saviour. 

And  yet,  to  those  who  willed  the  war  and 
drank  to  the  day  of  its  coming,  even  the  Cross 
has  no  sacredness.  It  is  to  them  but  a  tool 
of  war.  An  officer  told  me  that  during  the 
German  retreat  from  the  Somme  they  noticed 
a  peculiar  accuracy  in  the  enemy's  firing.  The 
shells  followed  an  easily  distinguishable  course. 
So  many  casualties  occurred  from  this  accurate 
shelling  that  the  officers  set  themselves  to  dis- 
cover the  cause.   They  found  that  the  circle 


164       The  Cross  at  Neuve  Chapelle 

of  shells  had  for  its  center  the  cross-roads,  and 
that  at  the  cross-roads  was  a  crucifix  that  stood 
up  clearly  as  a  land-mark.  Evidently  the 
crosses  were  being  used  to  guide  the  gunners, 
and  was  causing  the  death  of  our  men.  But 
a  more  remarkable  thing  came  to  light.  The 
cross  stood  close  to  the  road,  and  when  the 
Germans  retired  they  had  sprung  a  mine  at  the 
cross-roads  to  delay  our  advance.  Everything 
near  had  been  blown  to  bits  by  the  explosion 
except  the  crucifix  which  had  not  a  mark  upon  it. 
And  yet  it  could  not  have  escaped,  except  by 
a  miracle.  They  therefore  set  themselves  to 
examine  the  seeming  miracle  and  came  across 
one  of  the  most  astounding  cases  of  fiendish 
cunning.  They  found  that  the  Germans  had 
made  a  concrete  socket  for  the  crucifix  so  that 
they  could  take  it  out  or  put  it  in  at  pleasure. 
Before  blowing  up  the  cross-roads  they  had 
taken  the  cross  out  of  its  socket  and  removed 
it  to  a  safe  distance,  then,  when  the  mine  had 
exploded,  they  put  the  cross  back  so  that  it 
might  be  a  landmark  to  direct  their  shooting. 
And  now  they  were  using  Christ's  instrument 
of  redemption  as  an  instrument  for  men's  de- 
struction. 

But  our  young  officers  resolved  to  restore 
the  cross  to  its  work  of  saving  men.     They 


The  Cross  at  Neuve  Chapelle       165 

waited  till  night  fell,  and  then  removed  the  cross 
to  a  point  a  hundred  or  two  yards  to  the  left. 
When  in  the  morning  the  German  gunners 
fired  their  shells  their  observers  found  that  the 
shells  fell  too  far  wide  of  the  cross  and  they 
could  make  nothing  of  the  mystery.  It  looked 
as  if  someone  had  been  tampering  with  their 
guns  in  the  night.  To  put  matters  right  they 
altered  the  position  of  their  guns  so  that  once 
more  the  shells  made  a  circle  round  the  cross. 
'And  henceforth  our  soldiers  were  safe,  for  the 
shells  fell  harmlessly  into  the  outlying  fields. 
Nor  was  this  the  only  time  during  their  retreat 
that  the  Germans  put  the  cross  to  this  base  use 
and  were  foiled  in  their  knavery. 

When  a  nation  scraps  the  Cross  of  Christ 
and  turns  it  into  a  tool  to  gain  an  advantage 
over  its  opponents,  it  becomes  superfluous  to 
ask  who  began  the  war,  and  folly  to  close  our 
eyes  to  the  horrors  and  depravities  which  are 
being  reached  in  the  waging  of  it. 

There  is  a  new  judgment  of  the  nations  now 
proceeding  and  who  shall  predict  what  shall 
be?  The  Cross  of  Christ  is  the  arbiter,  and 
our  attitude  towards  it  decides  our  fate.  I 
have  seen  the  attitude  of  our  soldiers  towards 
the  cross  at  Neuve  Chapelle  and  towards 
that  for  which  it  stands;  and  I  find  more  com- 


166       The  Cross  at  Neiive  Chapelle 

fort  in  their  reverence  for  Christ  and  Chris- 
tianity than  in  all  their  guns  and  impediments 
of  war. 

The  Cross  of  Christ  towers  above  the  wrecks 
of  time,  and  the  nations  will  survive  that  stand 
beneath  its  protecting  arms  in  the  trenches  of 
righteousness,  liberty  and  truth. 


XV 
THE  CHILDREN  OF  OUR  DEAD 

THERE  are  times  when  we  get  away  from 
the  Front  for  a  rest.  We  hear  no 
more  the  sound  of  the  guns,  but  give 
ourselves  up  to  the  silence  and  charm  of  the 
country.  Before  going  into  the  Somme  fight- 
ing we  were  billeted  for  ten  days  in  the  neigh- 
boring village  to  Cressy ;  and  as  the  anniversary 
of  the  battle  came  that  week  the  colonel  chose 
the  day  for  a  march  to  the  battlefield.  The 
owner  of  the  field,  when  the  old  windmill 
stood,  from  which  King  Edward  III  directed 
his  army,  came  to  meet  us  and  describe  the 
battle.  When  the  war  is  over  he  is  going  to 
erect  a  monument  on  the  spot  to  the  memory 
of  the  French  and  British  troops  who  in  com- 
radeship have  died  fighting  against  the  common 
foe. 

They  were  happy  days  that  we  spent  around 
Cressy.     The  last  that  some  were  destined  to 
know  this  side  of  the  Great  Divide.    The  bed- 
room next  to  mine  was  occupied  by  two  fine 
167 


168         The  Children  of  Our  Dead 

young  officers  of  utterly  different  type.  One 
was  a  Greek  whose  father  had  taken  out 
naturalization  papers  and  loved  the  country  of 
his  adoption  with  a  worshiping  passion  that 
would  shame  many  native  born.  The  other 
was  a  charming,  argumentative,  systematic, 
theological  student  of  Scots  parentage.  The 
night  before  we  left,  the  Greek  accidentally 
broke  his  mirror  and  was  much  upset.  It  was, 
he  said,  a  token  that  Death  was  about  to  claim 
him.  The  Scot  laughed  heartily,  for  he  had 
not  a  trace  of  the  superstitious  in  him;  or,  if  he 
had — which  was  more  than  likely — it  was  kept 
under  by  his  strong  reasoning  faculties. 

"If  you  are  to  be  killed,"  he  replied,  "I  am 
to  be  killed  too,  for  I  also  have  broken  my 
mirror." 

He  spoke  the  words  in  jest,  or  with  hardly 
a  discernible  undercurrent  of  seriousness;  but 
they  were  true  words  nevertheless.  The  two 
bed-mates  were  killed  in  the  same  battle  a  week 
or  two  later.  I  had  tea  with  them  in  their 
dug-out  on  the  eve  of  the  fight.  They  were 
to  take  up  their  positions  in  an  hour,  but  the 
student  could  not  resist  having  just  one  more 
argument.  He  directed  the  conversation  to  the 
New  Theology,  and  to  German  philosophers 
and  Biblical  scholars.  He  simply  talked  me 
off  my  feet,  for  he  possessed  the  most  brilliant 


The  Children  of_Our  Dead         169 

intellect  in  the  regiment,  combined  with  self- 
reliance  and  perfect  modesty.  Then  the  con- 
versation turned  to  the  question  of  taking  a  tot 
of  rum  before  going  over  the  parapet.  He 
was  a  rigid  teetotaler,  "for,"  said  he,  "drink 
is  the  ruin  of  my  country."  He  was  opposed 
to  the  idea  of  taking  rum  to  help  one's  courage 
or  allay  his  fears.  He  would  not,  he  said,  go 
under  with  his  eyes  bandaged.  He  would 
take  a  good  look  at  Death  and  dare  him  to 
do  his  worst.  He  was  superb,  and  Death  never 
felled  a  manlier  man.  Browning  would  have 
loved  him  as  his  own  soul  for  he  had  Brown- 
ing's attitude  to  life  exactly,  and  could  have 
sung  with  him. 


"Fear    death?   .    .    . 
I  was  ever  a  fighter,  so— one  fight  more, 

The  best  and  the  last! 
I  would  hate   that  death  bandaged   my  eyes,   and  forbore, 

And  bade  me  creep  past. 
No!   let  me  taste  the  whole  of   it,  fare   like  my  peers 

The   heroes   of   old, 
Bear  the  brunt,  in  a  minute  pay  glad  life's  arrears 

Of  pain,  darkness  and  cold. 
For  sudden  the   worst  turns  best  to  the  brave, 

The  black  minute's  at  end, 
And  the  elements'   rage,  the  fiend-voices  that  rave, 

Shall  dwindle,  shall  blend, 
Shall  change,  shall  become  first  a  peace  out  of  pain, 

Then   a  light  .  .  . 

And  with   God  be  the   rest!" 


170  The  Children  of  Our  Dead 

He  was  found  with  his  "body  against  the 
wall  where  the  forts  of  folly  fall."  His  brave, 
intelligent  face  was  completely  blown  away. 
His  Greek  friend  was  wounded,  and  while  be- 
ing dressed  in  a  shell-hole  by  his  servant,  was 
hit  again  and  killed. 

Some  weeks  later  all  that  remained  of  the 
regiment  was  drawn  out  to  a  little  village  some 
miles  from  Amiens,  and  very  similar  to  the 
one  we  had  occupied  near  Cressy.  We  were 
taken  to  it  in  motor-'buses  for  the  men  were 
too  exhausted  to  march,  and  the  days  spent 
there  were  days  of  great  delight.  We  had  a 
glorious,  crowded-out  service  on  the  Sunday. 
It  was  both  a  thanksgiving  and  a  memorial 
service,  and  I  spoke  to  the  men  on  "The  Pass- 
ing of  the  Angels." 

"When  the  music  ceased,"  I  said,  "and  the 
herald-angels  departed,  the  sky  became  very 
empty,  cold  and  gray  to  the  Shepherds;  and 
they  said  one  to  another,  'let  us  now  go  even 
unto  Bethlehem.'  And  they  went  and  found 
out  Jesus.  If  the  angels  had  stayed  the  shep- 
herds would  have  stayed  with  them.  The 
angels  had  to  come  to  point  them  to  Jesus  but, 
that  done,  they  had  to  go  away  to  make  the 
shepherds  desire  Jesus  and  seek  Him.  'When 
the  half-gods  go  the  gods  arrive.'  The  angels 
had  to  make  room  for  Jesus  and  the  second 


The  Children  of  Our  Dead         171 

best  had  to  yield  place  to  the  best.  When  John 
the  Baptist  was  killed  his  disciples  went  in  their 
sorrov/  to  Jesus;  and  having  lost  our  noble 
comrades,  we  must  go  to  Him  also.  The  best 
in  our  friends  came  from  Jesus  as  the  sweet 
light  of  the  moon  comes  from  the  sun;  and  we 
must  go  to  the  Source.  If  we  find  and  keep 
to  Jesus,  sooner  or  later  we  shall  find  our  lost 
friends  again,  for  'them  also  which  sleep  in 
Jesus  will  God  bring  with  him  !'  " 

In  some  such  words  I  tried  to  comfort  those 
who  had  left  their  comrades  behind  in  the 
graves  on  the  Somme;  for  I  know  how  deeply 
they  felt  the  loss.  During  the  week  we  had 
dinner  parties,  and  all  kinds  of  jolly  social  in- 
tercourse. It  was  amusing  to  see  the  delight 
everyone  felt  at  having  a  bed  to  sleep  in. 
"Look  Padre,  at  these  white  sheets,"  an  oflicer 
cried  as  I  passed  his  window.  He  was  as 
merry  over  them  as  if  a  rich  maiden  aunt  had 
remembered  him  in  her  will.  Some  got  "leave" 
home,  and  were  so  frankly  joyful  about  it  that 
it  made  the  rest  of  us  both  glad  and  envious. 
We  made  up  for  it  somewhat  by  getting  leave 
to  spend  an  occasional  day  in  Amiens.  There 
I  went  into  the  glorious  cathedral.  Almost  the 
whole  of  the  front  was  sandbagged,  but  even 
thus,  it  was  a  "thing  of  beauty"  and  has  be- 
come for  me  a  "joy  forever." 


172         The  Children  of  Our  Dead 

Except  Rouen  Cathedral  I  have  seen  nothing 
to  equal  it.  Notre  Dame,  with  its  invisible 
yet  clinging  tapestry  of  history,  is  more  deeply 
moving.  But  it  is  sadder — more  sombre. 
Something  of  the  ugliness  and  tragedy  of  by- 
gone days  peep  out  in  it;  but  Amiens  Cathedral 
is  a  thing  of  pure  joy  and  beauty.  It  suggests 
fairies,  while  Notre  Dame  suggests  goblins. 

While  I  was  looking  at  its  glorious  rose- 
windows  which  were  casting  their  rich  colors 
on  the  pillars,  a  father  and  his  two  children 
came  in.  The  man  and  son  dipped  their 
lingers  in  the  shell  of  holy  water,  crossed  their 
foreheads  and  breasts  with  the  water,  and  were 
passing  on;  but  the  little  girl  who  was  too 
short  to  reach  the  shell,  took  hold  of  her 
father's  arm  and  pulled  him  back.  She,  too, 
wished  to  dip  her  fingers  in  holy  water,  and 
make  the  sign  of  the  cross  over  her  mind  and 
heart.  The  father  yielded  to  her  importunity 
and  touched  her  hand  with  his  wet  fingers. 
She  made  the  sacred  sign  and  was  satisfied. 
The  father  and  son  had  remembered  their  own 
needs  but  forgotten  the  child's. 

After  all  the  tragic  happenings  on  the 
Somme  why  should  this  little  incident  linger  in 
my  memory  like  a  primrose  in  a  crater?  Did 
it  not  linger  because  of  the  tragedy  of  the 
preceding  weeks?     I  had  been  living  weeks  to- 


The  Children  of  Our  Dead         173 

gether  without  seeing  a  child  and  after  the 
slaughter  of  youth  which  I  had  witnessed  the 
sight  of  a  child  in  a  cathedral  was  inexpressibly 
beautiful.  The  father's  neglect  of  its  finer 
needs  gave  me  pain.  We  have  lost  so  many 
young  men,  that  every  child  and  youth  left  to 
us  ought  to  be  cared  for  as  the  apple  of  our 
eye.  We  have  lost  more  than  our  young  men. 
We  have  lost  those  who  would  have  been  their 
children.  The  little  ones  who  might  have  been, 
have  gone  to  their  graves  with  their  fathers. 
The  old  recruiting  cry,  "the  young  and  single 
first"  was  necessary  from  a  military  stand- 
point but,  from  a  merely  human  point  of  view, 
I  could  never  see  much  justice  in  it.  The  young 
had  no  responsibility,  direct  or  indirect,  for  the 
war.  They  were  given  life  and  yet  before 
they  could  taste  It,  they  were  called  upon  to 
die  in  our  behalf.  We  who  are  older  have 
tasted  of  life  and  love ;  the  residue  of  our  years 
will  be  much  the  same  as  those  that  have  gone 
before;  there  will  be  little  of  surprise  or  new- 
ness of  experience.  Perhaps,  too,  we  have 
living  memorials  of  ourselves,  so  that  If  we  die, 
our  personality  and  name  will  still  live  on. 
Our  death  will  only  be  partial.  While  William 
Pitt  lived  could  it  be  said  that  Lord  Chatham 
had  died?  His  body  was  dead,  truly,  but  his 
spirit  found  utterance  in  the  British  House  of 


174         The  Children  of  Our  Dead 

Commons  every  time  his  son  spoke,  and 
Napoleon  felt  the  strength  of  his  arm  as  truly 
did  Montcalm  on  the  Heights  of  Abraham.  I 
should  not  have  mourned  the  loss  of  the  young 
Scot  and  the  Greek  so  much,  had  they  left  to 
the  world  some  image  and  likeness  of  them- 
selves. In  dying,  they  gave  more  than  them- 
selves to  death; 

"Those  who  would  have  been 
Their   sons   they   gave — their   immortality." 

After  a  summer  on  the  Somme,  I  have  come 
to  understand  something  of  how  fear  of  the 
devouring  maw  of  Time  became  almost  an  ob- 
session with  Shakespeare.  Death  had  taken 
from  him  some  of  the  dearest  intimates  of  his 
heart,  and  taken  them  young.  And  so,  like  the 
sound  of  a  funeral-bell  echoing  down  the  lane 
where  lovers  walk,  there  is  heard  through  all 
his  sonnets  and  poems  of  love  the  approaching 
footsteps  of  death.  Sometimes  the  footsteps 
sound  faintly,  but  they  are  seldom  absent. 
How  then  would  he  have  felt  in  a  war  like 
this,  in  which  the  "young  and  single"  have  gone 
out  by  the  hundred  thousand  to  prematurely 
die? 

Others,  however,  who  have  given  their  lives 
were  married  men,  and  they  have  left  images 
of  themselves  in  trust  to  the  nation.    We  know 


The  Children  of  Our  Dead         175 

the  last  thoughts  of  a  dying  father.  Captain 
Falcon  Scott  as  he  lay  dying  at  the  South  Pole 
has  expressed  them  for  all  time.  "Take  care 
of  the  boy,"  he  said,  "there  should  be  good 
stuff  in  him."  He  found  comfort  in  the  re- 
flection that  he  would,  though  he  died,  live  on 
in  his  son;  but  he  was  saddened  by  the  thought 
that  the  son  would  have  to  face  the  battle  of 
life  without  a  father  to  back  him  up.  The 
boy  would  therefore  need  special  "care." 

On  the  evening  of  the  first  battle  of  the 
Somme  I  spoke  to  a  young  officer  as  he  lay  in 
a  bed  at  the  Field  Ambulance.  He  had  lost 
his  right  arm  and  he  told  me  how  it  had  hap- 
pened. He  was  charging  across  No  Man's 
Land  when  a  shell  cut  it  off  near  the  shoulder, 
and  flung  it  several  yards  away.  As  he  saw 
it  fall  to  the  ground  the  sight  so  overcame  him 
that  he  cried  aloud  in  distress,  "Oh  my  arm! 
My  beautiful  arm."  He  was  still  mourning 
its  loss,  so,  to  comfort  him,  I  told  him  that 
Nelson  lost  his  right  arm  and  won  the  Battle 
of  Trafalgar  after  he  had  lost  it.  Like  Nel- 
son, I  told  him,  he  would  learn  to  write  with 
his  left  hand  and  still  do  a  man's  job.  He 
would  not  be  useless  in  life  as  he  feared. 
When  the  children  of  our  dead  soldiers  charge 
across  No  Man's  Land  in  the  battle  of  life 
they  will  think  of  their  lost  fathers,  and  the 


176         The  Children  of  Our  Dead 

agonizing  cry  of  the  young  wounded  soldier 
will  rise  to  their  lips,  "Oh  my  arm,  my  beauti- 
ful arm."  The  State  is  providing  artificial 
arms  for  our  wounded  soldiers.  Will  it  be  a 
right  arm  to  the  children  of  its  dead?  Will 
it  be  a  father  to  the  fatherless  and  a  husband 
to  the  widow?  Unless  it  is  ready  for  this 
sacred  task,  it  had  no  right  to  ask  for  and 
accept  the  lives  of  these  men. 

The  State,  with  the  help  of  the  Church,  must 
resolve  that  no  child  shall  suffer  because  its 
father  was  a  hero  and  patriot.  The  State  must 
help  the  child  to  the  shell  of  holy  water  without 
the  little  one  having  to  pull  at  its  arm  to  re- 
mind it  of  its  duties.  If  the  children  of  our 
dead  soldiers  lack  education,  food,  moral  and 
spiritual  guidance,  or  a  proper  start  in  life, 
no  words  will  be  condemnatory  enough  to 
adequately  describe  the  nation's  crime  and  in- 
gratitude. They  are  the  sons  and  daughters 
of  heroes  and  there  "should  be  good  stuff"  in 
them.  It  is  the  nation's  privilege,  as  well  as 
its  duty,  to  take  the  place  of  their  fathers. 

A  few  days  later  I  walked  into  Arras  from 
the  neighboring  village.  There  were  guns  all 
along  the  road,  and  there  was  not  a  house  but 
bore  the  mark  of  shells.  Some  of  the  civilians 
had  remained,  but  these  were  mostly  old  people 
who  could  not  settle  elsewhere,  and  who  pre- 


The  Children  of  Our  Dead         177 

ferred  to  die  at  home  rather  than  live  in  a 
strange  place.  One  house  impressed  me 
greatly.  It  had  been  badly  damaged  but  its 
garden  was  untouched  and  in  it  were  half  a 
dozen  rose-trees.  It  was  the  beginning  of 
spring,  and  each  tree  was  covered  over  with 
sacking  to  preserve  it  from  the  cold  and  frag- 
ments of  shells.  The  owner  did  not  care  suffi- 
ciently for  his  own  life  to  move  away,  but  he 
cared  for  the  life  of  his  roses.  And  so,  when 
the  summer  came  there  were  roses  in  at  least 
one  garden  in  Arras. 

The  noise  of  the  guns  was  terrific  and  the 
old  man  had  to  live  in  the  cellar,  but  he  found 
leisure  of  soul  to  cultivate  his  roses.  His  action 
was  one  of  the  most  beautiful  things  I  have 
seen  in  the  entire  war.  The  children  of  our 
homes  are  more  beautiful  than  Arras  roses, 
and  more  difficult  to  rear.  May  we  trust  our 
country  not  to  neglect  them?  Will  she  save 
them  from  the  mark  of  the  shell,  and  help 
them  to  grow  up  to  a  full  and  perfect  loveliness? 
Our  dying  soldiers  have  trusted  her  to  do  it. 
From  their  graves  they  plead, 

"If  ye  break  faith  with  us  who  die, 
We  shall  not  sleep,  though  poppies  blow 
In  Flanders  fields." 


XVI 
!A  FUNERAL  UNDER  FIRE 

IT  was  In  a  ruined  village  behind  the 
trenches.  A  fatigue  party  had  just  come 
out  of  the  line,  and  was  on  its  way  to 
rest-billets  in  the  next  village.  The  men  were 
tired  so  they  sat  down  to  rest  in  the  deserted 
street.  Suddenly,  a  scream,  as  from  a  disem- 
bodied spirit,  pierced  the  air.  There  was  a 
crash,  a  cloud  of  smoke,  and  five  men  lay 
dead  on  the  pavement,  and  twelve  wounded. 
Next  morning  I  was  asked  to  bury  one  of  the 
dead.  Under  a  glorious  July  sky  a  Roman 
Catholic  chaplain  and  I  cycled  between  deso- 
late fields  into  the  village.  A  rifleman  guided 
us  down  a  communication-trench  till  we  came 
to  the  cemetery.  It  was  a  litde  field  fenced 
with  trees.  There  we  found  a  Church  of 
England  chaplain.  He  and  the  Catholic  chap- 
lain had  two  men  each  to  bury. 

A  burial  party  was  at  work  on  the  five  graves. 
It  was  the  fatigue  party  of  the  evening  before, 
and  the  men  were  preparing  the  last  resting 
178 


A  Funeral  Under  Fire  179 

place  of  those  who  had  died  at  their  side. 
They  worked  rapidly,  for  all  the  morning  the 
village  had  been  under  a  bombardment  which 
had  not  as  yet  ceased.  Before  they  had  fin- 
ished they  were  startled  by  the  familiar  but 
fatal  scream  of  a  shell  and  threw  themselves 
on  the  ground.  It  burst  a  short  distance  away 
without  doing  harm,  and  the  soldiers  went  on 
with  their  work,  as  If  nothing  had  happened. 
When  the  graves  were  ready,  two  of  the  bodies 
were  brought  out  and  lowered  with  ropes. 
The  Church  of  England  chaplain  read  the 
burial  service  over  them,  and  we  all  stood  round 
as  mourners.  Two  more  bodies  were  brought 
out  and  we  formed  a  circle  round  them  while 
the  Roman  Catholic  chaplain  read  the  burial 
service  of  his  Church — chiefly,  In  Latin.  There 
now  remained  but  one,  and  he,  In  turn,  was 
quietly  lowered  Into  his  grave.  He  was  still 
wearing  his  boots  and  uniform  and  was  wrapped 
around  with  his  blanket. 

"No  useless  coffin  enclosed  his  breast, 
Not  in  sheet  or  in  shroud  we  wound  him; 
But  he   lay  like  a  warrior  taking  his  rest 
With  his  martial  cloak  around  him." 

AH  his  comrades  who  had  been  with  him  in 
the  dread  hour  of  death  were  mourning  by  his 
grave,  and  standing  with  them  were  his  officer 


180  A  Funeral  Under  Fire 

and  two  chaplains.  I  read  the  full  service  as 
it  is  given  in  our  Prayer  Book.  It  was  all 
that  one  could  do  for  him.  The  Catholic  chap- 
lain had  sprinkled  consecrated  water  on  the 
bodies  and  I  sprinkled  consecrated  soil.  Was 
it  not  In  truth  holy  soil?  Behind  me  was  one 
long,  common  grave  in  which  lay  buried  a  hun- 
dred and  ten  French  soldiers;  "no  Braves" 
was  the  inscription  the  cross  bore.  In  front  of 
me  were  three  rows  of  graves  in  which  were 
lying  British  soldiers.  French  and  British  sol- 
diers were  mingling  their  dust.  In  death,  as  in 
life,  they  were  not  divided. 

I  felt  led  to  offer  no  prayer  for  the  lad  at 
my  feet,  nor  for  his  dead  comrades.  He  needed 
no  prayer  of  mine;  rather  did  I  need  his.  He 
was  safe  home  In  port.  The  storm  had  spent 
itself  and  neither  rock,  nor  fog,  nor  fire  would 
trouble  him  again.  His  living  comrades  and 
I  were  still  out  in  the  storm,  battling  towards 
the  land.  He  had  no  need  of  us,  but  his  parents 
and  comrades  had  need  of  him.  We  were 
there  to  pay  a  tribute  to  his  life  and  death,  to 
pray  for  his  loved  ones,  and  to  learn  how  frail 
we  are  and  how  dependent  upon  Him  who  is 
beyond  the  reach  of  the  chances  and  changes 
of  this  mortal  life. 

I  was  half  way  through  the  recital  of  the 
last  prayer — "We  bless  Thy  Holy  Name  for 


A  Funeral  Under  Fire  181 

all  Thy  servants  departed  this  life  in  Thy 
faith  and  fear" — when  that  fatal,  well-known 
scream,  as  of  a  vulture  darting  down  on  its 
prey,  again  tore  the  air.  The  men,  as  they 
had  been  taught,  dropped  to  the  ground  like 
stones.  My  office  demanded  that  I  should  con- 
tinue the  prayer,  and  leave  with  God  the  deci- 
sion as  to  how  it  should  end.  There  was  a 
crash,  and  the  branches  of  the  trees  overhead 
trembled  as  some  fragments  of  shell  smote 
them.  But  there  was  nothing  more.  The  men 
rose  as  quickly  as  they  had  fallen,  and  all  were 
reverently  standing  to  attention  before  the  last 
words  of  the  prayer  found  utterance.  The 
graves  were  filled  in  and  we  went  our  several 
ways.  Next  day  white  crosses  were  placed 
over  the  five  mounds,  and  we  bade  them  a  long 
and  last  farewell. 


XVII 
A  SOLDIER'S  CALVARY 

THERE  is  one  afternoon  on  the  Somme 
that  stands  out  in  my  memory  like  a 
dark,  hill  when  the  sun  has  sunk  below 
the  verge  and  left  a  lingering  bar  of  red  across 
the  sky.  It  was  a  Calvary  thick  with  the  bodies 
of  our  men.  I  was  looking  for  the  West- 
minsters and  they  were  difficult  to  find.  I 
passed  over  one  trench  and  reached  another. 
There  I  asked  the  men  if  they  knew  where  the 
Westminsters  were,  and  they  expressed  the 
opinion  that  the  regiment  was  in  the  trench 
ahead.  There  was  no  communication  trench 
so  I  followed  a  fatigue-party  for  some  distance 
which  was  marching  in  single  file,  and  carry- 
ing hand-grenades  to  the  firing  line.  They 
turned  to  the  right  and  I  kept  straight  on. 
Every  few  yards  I  passed  rifles  reversed  and 
fastened  in  the  ground  by  their  bayonets.  They 
marked  the  graves  of  the  dead.  A  few  sol- 
diers, but  newly  killed,  were  still  lying  out. 
At  last  I  reached  a  trench  and  found  in  it 
182 


A  Soldier's  Calvary  183 

a  number  of  Westminsters.  They  were  sig- 
nalers on  special  duty,  and  they  told  me  that 
I  had  already  passed  the  regiment  on  my  left. 
The  poor  fellows  were  in  a  sad  plight.  The 
weather  was  cold  and  they  were  without 
shelter.  There  were  German  dug-outs  but  they 
were  partly  blown  in  and  full  of  German  dead. 
The  stench  that  rose  from  these,  and  from  the 
shallow  graves  around,  was  almost  unbearable. 
Yet  there  amid  falling  shells,  the  lads  had  to 
remain  day  and  night.  Their  rations  were 
brought  to  them,  but  as  every  ounce  of  food 
and  drop  of  water,  in  addition  to  the  letters 
from  home,  had  to  be  brought  on  pack  mules 
through  seven  or  eight  miles  of  field  tracks  in 
which  the  mules  struggled  on  up  to  the  knees 
in  sticky  mud  and  sometimes  up  to  the  belly, 
it  was  impossible  for  the  regiment  to  receive 
anything  beyond  water  and  "iron  rations,"  i.e., 
hard  biscuits.  Water  Vas  so  precious  that  not 
a  drop  could  be  spared  to  wash  faces  or  clean 
teeth  with,  and  I  always  took  my  own  water- 
bottle  and  food,  to  avoid  sharing  the  scanty 
supplies  of  the  officers.  After  a  little  time 
spent  with  the  signalers  I  moved  up  the  trench 
and  looked  in  at  the  little  dug-out  of  the 
Colonel  commanding.  All  the  officers  present, 
bearded  almost  beyond  recognition,  were  sitting 
on  the  floor.    The  enemy  had  left  a  small  red 


184  A  Soldier's  Calvary- 

electric  light,  which  added  an  almost  absurd 
touch  of  luxury  to  the  miserable  place.  Farther 
up  the  trench  I  found  the  Brigade  Staff  Cap- 
tain in  a  similar  dug-out  and  after  making  in- 
quiries as  to  the  position  of  the  Queen's  West- 
minster Regiment  which  was  my  objective,  I 
left  to  find  it;  for  the  sun  was  already  setting. 
The  path  was  across  the  open  fields,  and  the 
saddest  I  have  ever  trod.  I  was  alone  and 
had  but  little  idea  of  location,  but  it  was  im- 
possible to  miss  the  path.  On  the  right  and 
left,  it  was  marked  at  every  few  steps  with 
dead  men.  Most  of  them  were  still  grasping 
their  rifles.  They  had  fallen  forward  as  they 
rushed  over  the  ground,  and  their  faces — their 
poor,  blackened,  lipless  faces — were  towards 
the  foe.  There  had,  as  yet,  been  no  oppor- 
tunity to  bury  them  for  the  ground  was  still 
being  shelled  and  the  burial  parties  had  been 
all  too  busily  engaged  in  other  parts  of  the 
field.  I  longed  to  search  for  their  identity 
discs  that  I  might  know  who  they  were  and 
make  a  note  of  the  names;  but  I  had  to  leave 
it  to  the  burial  party.  I  was  already  feeling 
sick  with  the  foul  smells  in  the  trench  and  the 
sights  on  the  way,  and  lacked  the  strength  to 
look  for  the  discs  around  the  wrists  and  necks 
of  the  poor,  decomposed  bodies.  It  had  to  be 
left  to  men  of  the  burial  party  whose  nerves 


A  Soldier's  Calvary  185 

were  somewhat  more  hardened  to  the  task  by 
other  experiences  of  the  kind.  It  was  a  new 
Calvary  on  which  I  was  standing.  These  poor 
bodies  miles  from  home  and  with  no  woman's 
hands  to  perform  the  last  offices  of  affection 
were  lying  there  as  the  price  of  the  world's 
freedom. 

Would  that  all  who  talk  glibly  of  freedom 
and  justice  might  have  seen  what  I  saw  on  that 
dreary  journey,  that  they  might  the  better  real- 
ize the  spiritual  depths  of  liberty  and  righteous- 
ness, and  the  high  cost  at  which  they  are  won 
for  the  race.  It  is  fatally  easy  to  persuade  our- 
selves that  there  is  no  need  for  us  to  tread  the 
bitter  path  of  suffering  and  death — that  we  can 
achieve  freedom  and  justice  by  being  charitable, 
and  by  talking  amiably  to  our  enemies.  We 
try  to  believe  that  they  are  as  anxious  to 
achieve  liberty  for  the  world  as  we  are,  that 
they  are  striving  to  bind  mankind  in  fetters  of 
iron,  only  through  lack  of  knowledge  as  to 
our  intentions.  Their  hearts  and  intentions  are 
good  but  they  are  misled,  and  after  a  little  talk 
with  them  around  a  table  they  would  put  off 
their  "shining  armor"  and  become  angels  of 
light  carrying  palm  branches  in  place  of  swords 
and  fetters. 

This  is  a  mighty  pleasant  theory,  only  it  is 
not  true;  and  we  cannot  get  rid  of  evil  by  ignor- 


186  A  Soldier's  Calvary 

ing  it,  nor  of  the  devil  by  buying  him  a  new 
suit.  There  are  men  willing  to  die  to  destroy 
liberty,  just  as  there  are  others  willing  to  die 
in  its  defense.  It  is  not  that  they  do  not  under- 
stand liberty.  They  do,  and  that  is  why  they 
wish  to  destroy  it.  It  is  the  enemy  of  their 
ideal.  Whether  liberty  will  survive  or  not, 
depends  upon  whether  there  are  more  men  in- 
spired to  die  in  defending  liberty,  than  there 
are  willing  to  die  in  opposing  it.  A  thing  lives 
while  men  love  it  sufficiently  well  to  die  for  it. 
We  get  what  we  deserve;  and  readiness  to  die 
for  it  is  the  price  God  has  put  on  liberty. 

Words  are  things  too  cheap  to  buy  it.  When 
someone  suggested  establishing  a  new  religion 
to  supersede  Christianity,  Voltaire  is  reported 
to  have  asked  if  the  founder  were  willing  to 
be  crucified  for  it?  Otherwise,  it  would  stand 
no  chance  of  success.  It  was  a  deep  criticism, 
and  showed  that  Voltaire  was  no  fool.  Blood  is 
the  test,  not  words.  A  nation  can  only  achieve 
liberty  when  it  is  determined  to  be  free  or  die. 
"Whosoever  shall  seek  to  save  his  life  shall 
lose  it."  "Never  man  spake"  as  Christ  spake, 
but  He  did  not  save  the  world  by  talking  to 
it,  but  by  dying  for  It.  Outpoured  blood,  not 
outpoured  words,  Is  the  proof  of  moral  con- 
victions and  the  means  of  their  propaganda; 
our  soldiers  may  not  be  learned  In  some  things. 


A'Soldier's  Calvary  187, 

but  they  have  learned  that.  They  know  the 
cause  will  win  which  has  most  moral  power,  and 
that  the  cause  with  most  moral  strength  will 
prove  itself  to  be  the  one  with  most  martyrs. 
And  the  side  with  most  men  ready  to  be  mar- 
tyrs will  outstay  the  other.  The  spirit  of 
martyrdom,  not  negotiation,  is  the  path  to 
liberty  and  peace.  You  cannot  negotiate  with 
a  tiger.  The  dispute  is  too  simple  for  negotia- 
tion. You  have  to  kill  the  tiger,  or  yourself  be 
killed. 

While  I  was  on  leave,  a  man  told  me  that 
he  had  asked  some  soldiers  from  the  Front 
why  they  were  fighting,  and  they  could  not  tell 
him.  Probably.  All  the  deepest  things  are 
of  life  beyond  telling.  No  true  man  can  tell 
why  he  loves  his  wife  or  children.  This  trust 
in  words,  in  being  able  to  "tell  why,"  is  truly 
pathetic,  I  would  not  trust  a  wife's  love  if 
she  could  tell  her  husband  exactly  why  she 
loved  him;  nor  would  I  trust  our  soldiers  not 
to  turn  tail  in  battle  if  they  could  tell  just  why 
they  are  fighting.  They  cannot  tell,  but  with 
their  poor  lipless  faces  turned  defiantly  against 
the  foe  they  can  show  why  they  are  fighting. 
Let  those  who  want  to  know  the  soldiers'  rea- 
son why  they  fight  go  and  see  them  there  on 
the  blasted  field  of  battle,  not  ask  them  when 
they  come  home  on  leave.    The  lips  of  a  soldier 


188  A  Soldier's  Calvary 

perish  first,  as  his  dead  body  lies  exposed  on 
the  battlefield;  his  rifle  he  clutches  to  the  last; 
and  it  is  a  lesson  terrible  enough  for  even  the 
densest  talker  to  understand. 

The  dead  lads  lying  out  in  the  open  with 
their  rifles  pointing  towards  the  enemy  voice 
their  reason  why  loud  enough  for  the  deaf 
to  hear  and  the  world  to  heed.  Ideals  must 
be  died  for  if  they  are  to  be  realized  on 
earth,  for  they  have  bitter  enemies  who 
stick  at  nothing.  And  we  have  to  defend  our 
ideal  with  our  lives  or  be  cravens  and  let  it 
perish. 

History,  with  unimportant  variations,  is  con- 
stantly repeating  itself;  and  in  nothing  is  it 
so  consistent  as  in  the  price  it  puts  on  liberty. 
The  lease  of  liberty  runs  out;  the  lease  has 
to  be  renewed,  and  it  is  renewed  by  suffering 
and  martyrdom.  The  dear  dead  lads  whom 
I  saw  on  that  terrible  afternoon  were  renew- 
ing the  lease.  With  their  bodies  they  had 
marked  out  a  highway  over  which  the  peoples 
of  the  earth  may  march  to  freedom  and  to 
justice. 

The  view,  all  too  common,  that  our  soldiers 
regard  the  war  a$  a  kind  of  picnic,  and  an 
attack  as  a  sort  of  rush  for  the  goal  in  a  game 
of  football,  is  false — false  as  sin.  It  is  a  view 
blind  to  the  whole  psychology  of  the  war,  and 


A  Soldier's  Calvary  189 

misses  the  meaning  of  our  soldiers'  gayety  as 
much  as  it  ignores  their  fear  and  sorrow.  The 
trenches  are  a  Gethsemane  to  them  and  their 
prayer  is,  "Our  Father,  all  things  are  possible 
unto  Thee :  take  away  this  cup  from  me :  never- 
theless not  what  I  will,  but  what  Thou  wilt." 

One  day,  when  I  went  into  a  mess-room  in 
which  letters  were  being  censored,  an  officer 
said  to  me,  "Read  this,  Padre,  there's  a  refer- 
ence to  you,  and  a  candid  expression  of  a  man's 
attitude  towards  religion." 

I  took  the  letter  and  it  read:  "Our  chaplain 
isn't  far  out  when  he  says,  in  his  book,  that 
though  we  may  speak  lightly  of  the  church  we 
don't  think  or  speak  lightly  of  Christ.  How- 
ever careless  we  may  be  when  we  are  out  of 
the  trenches,  when  we  are  in  we  all  pray. 
There  is  nothing  else  we  can  do." 

I  have  been  eighteen  months  with  a  fighting 
regiment  on  the  Front,  and  I  have  never  spoken 
to  any  officer  who  did  not  regard  it  as  a  mathe- 
matical certainty  that,  unless  he  happened  to 
fall  sick  or  be  transferred — neither  of  which 
he  expected — he  would  be  either  killed  or 
wounded.  And  I  agreed  with  him  without  say- 
ing it.  He  does  not  even  hope  to  escape 
wounds.  They  are  inevitable  if  he  stays  long 
enough;  for  one  battle  follows  another  and  his 
time  comes.     He  only  hopes  to  escape  death 


190  A  Soldier's  Calvary 

and  the  more  ghastly  wounds.  Pie  hopes  the 
wound  when  It  comes  will  be  a  "cushy  one." 
The  men  take  the  same  view.  The  period  be- 
fore going  into  the  trenches,  or  into  battle,  is 
to  them  like  the  Garden  of  Gethsemane  was 
to  Christ;  they  are  "exceeding  sorrowful"  and 
in  their  presence  I  have  often  felt  as  one  who 
stood  "as  it  were,  a  stone's  throw"  from  them. 
They  are  going  out  with  the  expectation  of 
meeting  death. 

On  the  1st  of  July,  19 16,  twenty  officers  in 
our  regiment  went  over  the  top.  Nineteen 
were  killed  or  wounded  and  the  one  who  re- 
turned to  the  regiment  was  suffering  from 
shell-shock  and  had  to  be  sent  home.  Although 
our  losses  are  much  lower  now,  the  officers  and 
men  experience  the  agony  and  bloody  sweat 
of  Gethsemane  rather  than  the  pleasure  of  a 
picnic  in  Epping  Forest.  This  explains,  too, 
their  gayety.  It  is  the  happiness  of  men  who 
know  that  they  are  doing  their  bit  for  the 
world's  good,  and  playing  the  man,  not  the 
cad.  The  rise  of  happiness  into  gayety  is  the 
natural  reaction  from  the  sorrow  and  alarm 
which  have  been  clouding  their  hearts.  In 
peace  time  they  will  never  know  either  the  in- 
tensity of  joy  or  sorrow  they  know  now.  A 
man  never  feels  so  truly  humorous  as  when  he 
is  sad.     Humor  is  a  kind  of  inverted  sadness. 


A  Soldier's  Calvary  191 

The  most  exquisite  sadness  produces  the  most 
exquisite  humor  as  the  deepest  wells  give  the 
sweetest,  purest  and  coldest  water. 

Tears  and  laughter  are  never  far  from  one  another, 
The  heart  overflows  on  one  side,  and  then  on  the  other. 

Our  soldiers'  minds  are  not  filled  with 
thoughts  of  Germans,  but  with  thoughts  of  the 
friends  they  have  left  behind  them.  Nor  do 
they  often  think  of  killing  Germans.  They 
neither  think  so  much  of  the  Germans  nor  so 
bitterly  of  them  as  do  the  people  at  home. 
The  Germans  have  not  the  same  prominence 
in  the  picture.  Deeds  relieve  their  emotions  in 
regard  to  the  Germans  and  leave  their  hearts 
open  for  the  things  and  folk  they  love. 

It  is  commonly  supposed  (and  this  idea  is 
fostered  by  some  war  correspondents),  that 
when  our  men  go  over  the  top  they  are  pos- 
sessed with  a  mad  lust  to  kill  Germans,  The 
ultimate  aim  of  a  general  planning  a  battle  is 
to  kill  Germans  no  doubt,  for  that  is  the  only 
way  to  achieve  victory;  and  if  the  Germans  do 
not  want  to  be  killed  they  know  what  to  do. 
Let  them  surrender  or  retire.  The  private 
agrees  with  the  general  in  the  necessity  for 
killing  Germans,  but  that  is  not  what  he  is 
thinking  of  when  he  goes  over  the  top;  nor  is 
it  what  we  should  be  thinking  of  in  his  place. 


192  A  Soldier's  Calvary 

He  Is  thinking  of  the  Germans  killing  him. 
Life  Is  sweet  at  nineteen  or  one-and-twenty.  It 
pleads  to  be  spared  a  little  longer.  A  lad  does 
not  want  to  die ;  and  as  he  goes  over  the  parapet 
he  Is  thinking  less  of  taking  German  lives  than 
of  losing  his  own.  He  knows  that  German 
heads  will  not  fit  English  shoulders,  and  that, 
however  many  enemy  lives  he  may  take,  none 
of  them  will  restore  his  own  If  he  loses  It,  as 
he  Is  quite  likely  to  do.  He  Is  going  out  to 
be  mutilated  or  to  die.  That  Is  his  standpoint 
whatever  may  be  the  general's  or  the  war-cor- 
respondent's. He  goes  for  his  country's  sake 
and  the  right.  It  is  his  duty,  and  there  Is  an 
end  of  It. 

Most  of  the  killing  In  modern  war  is  done 
by  the  artillery  and  machine-guns.  Compara- 
tively few  men  have  seen  the  face  of  an  enemy 
they  know  themselves  to  have  killed.  A  regi- 
ment goes  out  to  be  shot  at,  rather  than  to 
shoot.  Unless  this  simple  fact  be  grasped,  the 
mentality  of  the  soldier  cannot  be  understood. 
The  lust  for  killing  Germans  would  never  take 
a  man  out  of  his  dug-out;  but  the  love  of  his 
country  and  the  resolve  to  do  his  duty  will  take 
him  out  and  lead  him  over  the  top.  It  is  what 
he  volunteered  for,  but  it  goes  hard  when  the 
time  comes  for  all  that. 

The  unburied  men  I  saw  had,  but  a  short 


A  Soldier's  Calvary  193 

while  ago,  no  idea  of  becoming  soldiers.  They 
were  the  light  of  a  home  and  the  stay  of  a 
business.  With  that  they  were  content.  But 
the  challenge  came;  and  they  went  out  to  de- 
fend the  right  against  the  wrong — the  true 
against  the  false.  They  tolled  up  a  new  Cal- 
vary "with  the  cross  that  turns  not  back,"  and 
now  they  He  buried  In  a  strange  land.  They 
have  lost  all  for  themselves,  but  they  have 
gained  all  for  us  and  for  those  who  will  come 
after  us.  Yet  although  they  saved  others,  them- 
selves they  could  not  save. 


XVIII 
THE  HOSPITAL  TRAIN 

WE  were  carried  from  our  regiments  to 
the  hospital  in  ambulance  cars.  I, 
and  several  others,  had  trench  fever. 
Some  were  suffering  from  gas  poisoning.  One 
lovely  boy — for  he  was  nothing  more — was 
near  to  death  with  "mustard"  gas.  The  doctor 
at  the  Dressing  Station  had  opened  a  vein  and 
bled  him  of  a  pint  of  blood.  It  was  the  only 
hope  of  saving  him.  But  as  the  car  bumped 
over  the  rough  roads  and  the  gas  in  his  lungs 
grew  more  suffocating  he  almost  despaired  of 
reaching  the  hospital  alive.  Others  were 
wounded;  and  one  had  appendicitis.  After  a 
period  in  hospital,  during  which  we  were  hon- 
ored with  a  visit  by  General  Byng,  it  was  de- 
cided that  we  should  go  to  the  Base.  We  lay 
down  on  stretchers,  and  orderlies  carried  us  to 
the  waiting  cars.  At  the  station  we  were  lifted 
Into  the  hospital  train.  The  racks  had  been 
taken  down  and  stretchers  put  in  their  places. 
These  were  reserved  for  the  "lying  cases." 
194 


The  Hospital  Train  195 

The  "sitting  cases"  occupied  the  seats — one  to 
each  corner.  It  was  afternoon  and  as  soon  as 
the  train  began  to  move  tea  was  served.  The 
train  sped  on  and,  about  sun-set,  a  most  ex- 
cellent dinner  was  provided  by  the  orderlies  on 
board. 

It  was  the  time  of  the  new  moon.  "Keep 
the  window  open,"  said  one,  "it  is  unlucky  to 
see  the  new  moon  through  glass,  and  we  need 
all  the  good  luck  we  can  get,"  and  he  avoided 
looking  through  the  glass  until  he  had  seen  the 
moon  through  the  open  window.  We  chatted, 
read  our  magazines,  or  slept — ^just  as  we  felt 
inclined.  The  night  wore  on  and  at  about  two 
o'clock  we  reached  Rouen.  Cars  rushed  us  to 
one  of  the  Red  Cross  hospitals.  A  doctor 
slipped  out  of  bed,  examined  our  cards,  decided 
in  which  wards  we  should  be  put,  and  orderlies 
led  or  carried  us  thither.  A  nurse  showed  each 
of  us  to  his  room.  We  were  got  to  bed  and 
another  nurse  brought  some  tea.  Next  morn- 
ing we  were  examined  and  put  down  for  re- 
moval across  the  Channel. 

The  nurses  are  radiant  as  sunshine,  and  dif- 
fuse a  spirit  of  merriment  throughout  the 
hospital.  It  was  a  pure  joy  to  be  under  their 
care.  At  three  o'clock  the  following  morning, 
without  previous  warning,  a  nurse  came  and 
awakened  us.     We  had  half  an  hour  to  dress. 


196  The  Hospital  Train 

Another  nurse  then  came  round  with  a  dainty 
breakfast.  We  were  then  put  into  cars  and 
taken  to  the  hospital  train.  It  left  as  dawn 
was  breaking,  and  we  were  on  our  way  to 
"Blighty."  We  had  a  comfortable  journey  and 
reached  Havre  about  nine.  Orderlies  carried 
us  on  board  ship  and  we  were  taken  to  our 
cots.  Breakfast  was  served  immediately.  We 
felt  a  huge  content;  and  hoped  to  be  across  by 
night.  But  the  ship  remained  by  the  quay  all 
day.  In  the  evening  it  moved  out  of  the  harbor 
and  lay  near  its  mouth.  Towards  midnight  it 
slipped  its  anchor  and  headed  for  home. 

All  had  received  life-belts  and  a  card  direct- 
ing us  which  boat  to  make  for,  should  the  ship 
be  torpedoed.  Mine  was  "Boat  5,  Starboard." 
My  neighbor  on  the  right  had  been  on  a  tor- 
pedoed boat  once  and  had  no  desire  to  be  on 
another.  The  lights  of  the  ship  were  obscured 
or  put  out,  and  we  silently  stole  over  the  waters 
towards  the  much  desired  haven.  There  was 
no  sound  but  the  steady  thump  of  the  engines, 
and  we  were  soon  asleep.  Shortly  after  dawn 
we  awoke  to  find  ourselves  in  Southampton 
Water.  A  water-plane  drew  near,  settled  like 
a  gull  on  the  water,  and  then  plowed  Its  way 
through  the  waves  with  the  speed  of  a  motor- 
boat. 

About  nine  o'clock  we  were  carried  off  the 


The  Hospital  Train  197 

boat  to  the  station.  Women  workers  supplied  us 
with  telegraph  forms,  confectionery  and  cigar- 
ettes; orderlies  brought  us  tea.  We  were  then 
taken  to  the  train.  It  was  even  more  comfortable 
than  the  hospital  trains  in  France;  and  we  had 
women  nurses.  On  each  side  of  the  train,  for 
its  full  length,  were  comfortable  beds  and  we 
were  able  to  sit  up  or  recline  at  our  pleasure. 
Lunch  was  served  on  board,  and  of  a  char- 
acter to  tempt  the  most  ailing  man.  No  short- 
age of  food  is  allowed  to  obtain  on  the  hospital 
train.  It  has  the  first  claim  on  the  food  supply 
and  it  has  the  first  claim  to  the  railroad.  It 
stops  at  no  station  except  for  its  own  con- 
venience. Even  the  King's  train  stops  to  let 
the  hospital  train  pass. 

We  were  under  the  care  of  a  nurse  who  had 
reached  middle  life.  She  had  been  on  a  tor- 
pedoed hospital  ship!  on  one  that  struck  a 
mine  without  bursting  It;  and  on  another  that 
collided  with  a  destroyer  In  the  dark.  She  was 
greatly  disappointed  at  the  decision  which  had 
removed  nurses  from  the  hospital  ships  because 
of  the  danger  from  submarines.  She  fully  ap- 
preciated the  chivalry  of  the  men  who  would 
not  let  their  women  be  drowned;  but  it  had 
robbed  the  women  of  a  chance  of  proving  their 
devotion,  and  she  could  not  see  why  the  men 
should   do   all  the   dying.      The   women   were 


198  The  Hospital  Train 

ready  to  meet  death  with  the  men  and  as  their 
mates  and  equals.  Their  place  was  with  the 
wounded  whatever  might  befall,  and  they  were 
ready. 

Hospital  trains  have  run  daily  for  three 
years  now,  and  human  nature  can  get  used  to 
anything.  We  thought,  therefore,  that  the 
people  would  have  become  used  to  the  hospital 
train.  But  greater  surprise  never  gladdened  a 
man's  heart  than  the  one  which  awaited  us  as 
we  steamed  out  of  Southampton.  All  the 
women  and  children  by  the  side  of  the  railway 
were  at  their  windows  or  in  their  gardens,  wav- 
ing their  hands  to  us.  And  all  the  way  to 
Manchester  the  waving  of  welcoming  hands 
never  ceased.  At  every  station  the  porters 
doffed  their  caps  to  the  hospital  train  as  it  sped 
past.  There  was  not  a  station  large  or  small 
that  did  not  greet  us  with  a  group  of  proud 
smiling  faces.  Our  eyes  were  glued  to  the 
windows  all  the  way.  For  one  day  in  our  lives, 
at  least,  we  were  kings,  and  our  procession 
through  "England's  green  and  pleasant  land" 
was  a  royal  one.  We  passed  through  quiet 
country  districts  but  at  every  wall  or  fence 
there  were  happy  faces.  We  wondered  where 
they  all  came  from,  and  how  they  knew  of  our 
coming.     There  were  tiny  children  sitting  on 


The  Hospital  Train  199 

all  the  railway  fences  waving  hands  to  us. 
One  little  girl  of  four  or  five  was  sitting  on  the 
fence  by  a  country  station  and  waving  her  little 
hand.  We  had  not  seen  English  children  for 
months  and  Pope  Gregory  spoke  the  truth 
ages  ago  when  he  said  that  they  are  '*not 
Angles  but  Angels."  The  sight  of  them  after 
so  long  an  absence  was  as  refreshing  to  the 
spirit  as  the  sight  of  violets  and  primroses 
after  a  long  and  bitter  winter. 

At  Birmingham  the  train  made  its  only  stop. 
Men  and  women  of  the  St.  John  Ambulance 
Association  boarded  the  train  and  supplied  us 
with  tea;  and,  as  the  train  moved  out,  stood 
at  attention  on  the  platform.  At  Manchester 
we  received  a  warm  welcome  that  told  us  we 
were  in  Lancashire.  Men  and  women  helped 
us  to  the  waiting  cars  and  handed  cups  of  tea 
to  us.  It  was  raining  of  course — ^being  Man- 
chester— but  as  we  passed  near  a  railway  arch 
a  waiting  crowd  rushed  out  Into  the  rain  and 
startled  us  with  a  cry  of  welcome  which  was  also 
a  cry  of  pain.  Most  of  the  men  In  the  cars 
were  Lancashire  lads  and  in  the  welcome  given 
them  there  were  tears  as  well  as  smiles.  Lan- 
cashire has  a  great  heart  as  well  as  a  long  head. 
It  suffers  with  those  who  suffer  and  the  cry  of 
the  heart  was   heard  In  the  welcome   of  Its 


200  The  Hospital  Train 

voice.     There  was  a  welcome  too,  at  the  door 
of  the  hospital  and  at  the  door  of  each  ward. 
Water  was  brought  to  our  bedside,  and  then 
a  tray  bearing  a  well-cooked  dinner. 
We  had  reached  home. 


XIX 
AFTER  WINTER,  SPRING 

A  MAN'S  heart  must  be  dead  within  him 
if,  under  the  summer  sun,  he  can  look 
on  the  desolated  ground  of  the  West- 
ern battle-front  without  feeling  emotions  of 
joy  and  hope.  In  the  winter-time  the  clumps 
of  blasted  trees  looked  like  groups  of  forsaken 
cripples.  Their  broken  branches  stood  out 
against  the  gray  sky  in  utter  nakedness,  as  if 
appealing  to  heaven  against  the  inhumanity  of 
man.  In  a  way,  it  was  more  depressing  to 
pass  a  ruined  wood  than  a  destroyed  village. 
Some  of  the  trees  had  all  their  limbs  shattered; 
others,  thicker  than  a  man's  body,  were  cut 
clean  through  the  middle;  others,  again,  were 
torn  clean  up  by  the  roots  and  lay  sprawling 
on  the  ground.  It  seemed  impossible  that  spring 
could  ever  again  clothe  them  in  her  garments 
of  gladdening  green.  We  imagined  the  trees 
would  appear  amid  the  sunshine  of  the  sum- 
mer black,  gaunt  and  irreconcilable;  pointing 
their  mangled  stumps  towards  those  who  had 
201 


202  Aiter  Winter,  Spring- 

done  them  such  irreparable  wrong  and,  as  the 
wind  whistled  through  them,  calling  on  all  de- 
cent men  to  rise  up  and  avenge  them  of  their 
enemies. 

But,  suddenly,  we  found  that  the  reconciling 
spring  was  back  in  the  woods  exercising  all 
her  oldtime  witchery.  Each  broken  limb  was 
covered  with  fresh  foliage  and  each  scarred 
stump  put  out  sprouts  of  green.  The  broken 
but  blossoming  woods  grew  into  a  picture  of 
Hope,  infinitely  more  sublime  and  touching 
than  the  one  to  which  Watts  gave  the  name. 
It  was  a  picture  drawn  and  colored  by  the 
finger  of  God,  and  it  made  the  fairest  of  man's 
handiwork  look  weak  and  incomplete.  Up- 
rooted trees  lay  on  the  ground  in  full  blossom, 
and  shell-lopped  branches  again  took  on  the 
form  of  beauty.  The  transformation  was  won- 
derful to  behold. 

And  it  all  happened  in  a  week.  When  our 
men  went  into  the  trenches  the  trees  were 
black,  bare  and  bruised,  but  when  they  came 
out  of  the  front  line  into  the  support-trenches 
the  wood  behind  them  was  a  tender  green  and 
had  grown  curved  and  symmetrical.  It  seemed 
as  If  the  fairies  of  our  childhood  had  returned 
to  the  earth  and  were  dwelling  In  the  wood. 
Although  two  long-range  naval  guns  lay  hidden 
behind  it,  which,  with  deep  Imprecations  opened 


After  Winter,  Spring  203 

their  terrible  mouths  to  hurl  fiery  thunderbolts 
at  the  enemy,  the  fairies  seemed  unafraid  and 
daily  continued  to  weave  for  the  trees  beauti- 
ful garments  of  leaf  and  blossom.  I  have  seen 
nothing  that  brought  such  gladness  to  both 
officers  and  men.  A  new  spirit  seemed  abroad. 
We  were  in  a  new  atmosphere  and  a  new 
world.  The  war  seemed  already  won,  and  the 
work  of  renewal  and  reconstruction  begun. 

And  now  the  summer  had  done  for  the 
ground  what  the  spring  did  for  the  trees.  One 
Sunday,  I  was  to  hold  a  service  on  ground 
that  was,  in  the  springtime.  No  Man's  Land. 
Having  ample  time  I  left  the  dusty  road  and 
walked  across  the  broken  fields  through  which 
our  front-line  trenches  had  run.  There  were 
innumerable  shell  holes  and  I  had  to  pick  my 
way  with  care  through  the  long  grass  and 
lingering  barbed  wire.  I  had  been  over  the 
ground  on  the  day  following  the  advance. 
Then  it  was  a  sea  of  mud,  with  vast  break- 
waters of  rusty  barbed  wire.  Now,  however, 
Nature's  healing  hand  was  at  work.  Slowly 
but  surely  the  trenches  were  falling  in,  and  the 
shell-holes  filling  up.  The  lips  of  the  craters 
and  trenches  were  red  as  a  maiden's — red  with 
the  poppies  which  come  to  them.  Here  and 
there  were  large  patches  of  gold  and  white 
where  unseen  hands  had  sov/n  the  mud  with 


204  After  Winter,  Spring  ^ 

dog-daisies.  There  were  other  patches  all 
ablaze  with  the  red  fire  of  the  poppies,  and  as 
the  slender  plants  swayed  in  the  wind,  the  fire 
leaped  up  or  died  down. 

When  the  war  broke  out  I  was  in  "Poppy- 
land"  near  Cromer,  in  East  Anglia.  There  I 
first  heard  the  tramp  of  armed  men  on  the  way 
to  France,  and  there  first  caught  the  strain  of 
"Tipperary" — the  farewell  song  of  the  First 
Seven  Divisions — a  strain  I  can  never  hear 
now  without  having  to  stifle  back  my  tears. 
As  I  passed  by  these  patches  of  blood-red  pop- 
pies I  thought  of  those  old  and  stirring  days 
at  Cromer  when  we  watched  a  regiment  of  the 
original  Expeditionary  Force  singing  "Tip- 
perary"  as  it  marched  swingingly  through  the 
narrow  streets.  The  declaration  of  war  was 
hourly  expected  and  the  pier  and  some  of  the 
Sunday-school  rooms  were  given  to  the  soldiers 
for  billets.  By  morning  every  soldier  had 
vanished  and  we  could  only  guess  where,  but 
a  remark  made  by  one  of  them  to  another 
lingers  still.  They  were  standing  apart,  and 
watching  the  fuss  the  people  were  making  over 
the  regiment. 

"Yes,"  he  said  to  his  comrade,  "they  think 
a  great  deal  of  the  soldiers  in  time  of  war, 
but  they  don't  think  much  of  us  in  days  of 
peace." 


After  Winter,  Spring  205 

The  remark  was  so  true  that  it  cut  like  a 
knife  and  the  wound  rankles  yet.  I  have  often 
wondered  what  became  of  the  lad  that  went 
out  to  France  to  the  horrors  of  war,  with  such 
memories  of  our  attitude  towards  him  in  the 
times  of  peace.  I  hope  he  lived  long  enough 
to  see  our  repentance.  His  memory  haunted 
me  among  the  poppies  of  Beaurains.  In  the 
English  Poppyland  there  was  nothing  to  com- 
pare with  the  red-coated  army  of  poppies  now 
occupying  our  old  front  line.  In  these  trenches 
our  gallant  men  had  for  nearly  three  years 
fought  and  bled,  and  It  seemed  as  if  every  drop 
of  blood  poured  out  by  them  had  turned  into 
a  glorious  and  triumphant  poppy. 

The  spring  and  summer  have  taught  me 
afresh  that  there  is  in  our  lives  a  Power  that 
is  not  ourselves.  It  is  imminent  in  us  and  in 
all  things,  yet  transcends  all.  "Change  and 
decay  in  all  around  we  see,"  and  still  there  is 
One  who  changes  not;  He  "from  everlasting 
to  everlasting  is  God."  He  is  the  fountain  of 
eternal  life  that  no  drought  can  touch.  He 
heals  the  broken  tree  and  the  broken  heart. 
He  clothes  the  desolate  fields  of  war  with  the 
golden  corn  of  peace,  and  in  the  trenches  that 
war  has  scored  across  the  souls  of  men,  he 
plants  the  rich  poppies  of  memory.  He  drives 
away   the   icy   oppression   of   winter  with   the 


206  After  Winter,  Spring 

breath  or  spring,  and  in  His  mercy  assuages 
"the  grief  that  saps  the  mind  for  those  that 
here  we  see  no  more." 

He  who  turns  rain-mists  into  rainbows  and 
brings  out  of  mud  scarlet  poppies  and  white- 
petaled  daisies  without  a  speck  of  dirt  upon 
them,  is  at  work  in  human  life.  Out  of  mud 
He  has  formed  the  poppy  and  out  of  the  dust 
the  body  of  man.  Who  then  can  set  Him 
limits  when  He  works  in  the  finer  material  of 
man's  soul?  Eye  hath  not  seen  nor  heart  con- 
ceived the  beauty  that  will  come  forth  when 
His  workmanship  is  complete.  "If  God  so 
clothe  the  grass  of  the  field,  which  to-day  is, 
and  to-morrow  is  cast  into  the  oven,  shall  He 
not  much  more  clothe  you,  O  ye  of  little  faith" 
who  were  made  for  immortality?  His  ways 
are  past  finding  out,  but  they  are  good.  He 
puts  out  the  sun  but  brings  forth  millions  of 
stars  in  its  stead.  At  His  call  they  come  flock- 
ing forth  as  doves  to  their  windows.  He 
blinds  Milton  but  brings  into  his  soul  a  flood 
of  light  such  as  never  shone  on  sea  or  land, 
and  in  its  rays  he  sees  Paradise,  lost  and  re- 
gained. He  shuts  Bunyan  in  a  noisome  prison, 
and  closes  against  him  the  door  to  his  beloved 
Bedford,  but  He  opens  to  him  a  magic  window 
that  looks  on  heaven,  and  the  years  pass  swiftly 
as  he  watches  the  progress  of  the  pilgrims  to- 


After  Winter,  Spring  207 

wards  the  Celestial  City.  In  the  mud  that 
has  been  stained  and  even  saturated  with  the 
life-blood  of  our  soldiers,  He  has  made  poppies 
to  spring  to  loveliness.  It  is  a  parable  He  is 
speaking  to  us,  that  the  heart  of  man  may  feel 
and  believe  that  which  it  is  beyond  the  power 
of  the  mind  to  grasp,  or  the  tongue  to  explain. 
The  wounds  of  France  are  deep  and  deadly 
but  they  are  not  self-inflicted  and  they  will  heal. 
She  will  blossom  again  with  a  glory  greater 
and  purer  than  all  her  former  glories.  She 
is  even  now  finding  her  soul,  and  revealing  a 
moral  beauty  and  endurance  such  as  few,  even 
of  her  dearest  friends,  could  have  foreseen  or 
foretold.  For  ashes,  God  has  given  her  beauty, 
and  it  is  worth  all  her  suffering.  Not  Voltaire, 
but  Joan  of  Arc  is  her  pride  to-day.  When 
I  was  in  Rouen  I  saw  the  fresh  flowers  which 
the  people  daily  place  on  the  spot  where  she 
died.  France  knows  where  her  strength  lies. 
Over  Napoleon  she  has  built  a  magnificent 
tomb  of  marble,  but  in  it,  she  has  not  placed 
a  single  flower.  As  I  walked  through  it,  some 
time  ago,  I  felt  depressed.  It  made  me  shiver. 
It  is  magnificent,  but  dead.  One  of  Joan  of 
Arc's  living  flowers  would  be  worth  the  whole 
pile.  It  is  the  most  tremendous  sermon  ever 
preached  on  the  vanity  of  military  glory  and 
the   emptiness   of  genius   when  uninspired  by 


208  After  Winter,  Spring 

moral  and  spiritual  worth.  France  knows. 
She  gives  Joan  of  Arc  a  flower,  but  Napoleon 
a  stone.  France  was  never  so  great  as  now, 
and  never  of  such  supreme  Importance  to  the 
world.  We  could  not  do  without  her.  On  her 
coins  she  represents  herself  as  a  Sower  that 
goes  forth  sowing.  It  is  a  noble  ideal,  and 
truly,  where  she  scatters  her  seeds  of  thought 
the  fair  flowers  of  liberty,  equality  and  fratern- 
ity spring  up  as  poppies  spring,  where  the 
blood  of  our  soldiers  has  watered  her  fields. 
France  is  the  fair  Sower  among  the  nations,  and 
it  will  be  our  eternal  glory  that  when  she  was 
suddenly  and  murderously  attacked  in  her  fields 
by  her  brutal  and  envious  neighbor — who 
shamelessly  stamps  a  bird  of  prey  on  his  coins 
for  his  symbol,  and  a  skull  and  cross-bones  on 
his  soldiers'  headgear  as  the  expression  of  his 
ambition — England  came  to  her  rescue,  and 
not  in  vain.  *  The  German  sword  has  gone 
deeply  into  the  heart  of  France,  but  it  will  leave 
not  a  festering  wound  but  a  well  of  water  at 
which  mankind  will  drink  and  be  refreshed. 
Wound  the  earth,  and  there  springs  forth 
water;  wound  France  and  there  springs  forth 
inspiration.  Trample  France  in  the  mud,  and 
she  comes  forth  pure  again,  passionate  and  free 
as  a  poppy  blown  by  the  summer  wind. 

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